


Bad Company Ruins Good Morals

by Wulfykins



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Arthur Whump, Blood and Gore, Bottom Arthur Morgan, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Summaries, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Smut, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture, Vampire Dutch, Vampires, Werewolf Arthur Morgan, Werewolves, Worldbuilding is Fun, trying something different, vampires are evil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:34:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28029360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wulfykins/pseuds/Wulfykins
Summary: The year is 1894, as the century nears it's end, so does the age of lawlessness. Gangs of outlaws were ferociously hunted by the law as they paved the road to civilization. Only a few remained, Clans they called themselves, lead by those who terrorized the living and feasted on their blood. Dutch Van der Linde was one of those leaders, a mortal no more. His clan was small in size, but among the strongest of them all, founded on the principles of loyalty and sacrifice. Those who remained loyal were granted the gift of immortality, those who sacrificed, the mercy of death. Among them lived Arthur Morgan, a mortal man torn between a vow from the past and a quest towards righteousness for the future. His life took an unexpected turn when a different type of curse was bestowed upon him.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith, Arthur Morgan/Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 12
Kudos: 46





	1. The Sacrifice of Blood

“Arthur!”

He just returned from a successful hunt, barely got off his saddle when Dutch called for him, stood high on his balcony where the man had a perfect view over his camp and it's inhabitants.

Man... hardly the right word for Dutch. He was not a man, nor a beast. A demon, some had called him. Master, was the word others used, the women in particular. Not that they had a choice, being enthralled by him as they were. Forced to do his bidding if they liked it or not. A strange ability which only seemed to work on those of the opposite gender, Dutch had told him stories of others like him, women, who could only compel men to do their bidding.

“Good hunt there, king Arthur.” Sean smirked on his way past him, rifle in hands. No doubt headed to his daily guard duties.

Arthur grunted at Sean, his mood soured by the knowledge that he had to join Dutch up in his room. His fingers made quick work of the rope which held his quarry in place on the back of his horse.

“Let me give you a hand with that.” John said as he approached.

“It's fine, I got it.” Arthur mumbled, the buck now free of its bindings.

“Nonsense, Dutch be needing you anyway, I'll take this to Mr. Pearson.” John lifted the buck, effortlessly, as if to him it weighed no more than a chicken.

Arthur sighed, there was nothing he could say in protest. He was thirty-one, John soon to be twenty-seven. But the younger man's position in camp was far above his. Only because John was more like Dutch and less like, not Dutch. He was shocked at the time, couldn't believe that John had accepted Dutch's _gift_ , out of all the men, he had been certain that just like him, John would have refused to be turned.

Except he hadn't.

Dutch told John that he would be the first of his children in this new country. Dutch had been proud to pass on his gift, or at least part of it. They weren't quite like him, not as fast nor strong. Young bloods, they called themselves. Slaves to their master, he thought. It was another price they paid on top of being damned to kill in order to live. The vow they made to serve their creator, without question, until death. A death which would not come easily for an immortal.

Hosea, Dutch's oldest friend and only mortal friend, had refused to be turned. More often than not had he overheard the men as they argued about it. It was through Hosea's steadfast resolve that Arthur knew he could stand up against Dutch's offer, that it was possible to refuse to be turned into a monster. Like Hosea he was horrified by the idea that he had to _feed_ on others to survive, to them it was a gift outweighed by an appalling curse.

He thought, hoped even that John would have seen it like they had, they tried, Hosea and him, to convince the young man to decline. For a whole year they succeeded. Dutch, convinced by his friend to not press the issue had conceded. It was impressive that someone with his power heeded the advice of a man anyone would consider to be his lesser.

A few months after Arthur and John had learned about Dutch's secret, they encountered Mac Callander. A man with a tongue as sharp as his knife, a mouth larger than life, but resolute and unswerving to a degree which had been admirable. Dutch was easily swayed to take him in, and he fit in well with their small group. A few months later, Dutch choose him to be the first to receive his gift, having been persuaded to decline John's requests. 

Mac had barely been with them for a month when the first of many calamites befell them. What was supposed to be a day of rest, turned out to be a pivotal moment of all their lives, a turning point to a much darker future. A group of eight rode up on their camp, lead by a man who referred to himself as a soldier of God, a harbinger of salvation for those who were damned by the devil. The man offered this salvation to Dutch, it surprised him. No mortal outside of their camp knew about his secret, or so Dutch thought.

The leader claimed to know how to vanquish creatures of the night, at first Dutch had called his bluff, too arrogant to believe a mortal possessed such knowledge. When tension rose, and the true gravity of the situation became more evident, Mac revealed his true nature in what was a desperate attempt to draw attention away from Dutch, his creator. Dutch persisted that the group merely bluffed and stood no chance against them. That was until the man killed Mac Callander, fired a crossbow loaded with a blessed wooden stake right through his heart. Mac stumbled backwards, seemed fine at first, then his body coloured grey as every vein under his skin protruded from it. An unholy shriek erupted from Mac's throat, fangs bared as he took a few last steps towards his executioner. First he dropped to his knees, then fell forward, face first into the dirt, lifeless. It shocked Dutch, shocked all of them who were there to witness it. Arthur thought them to be invulnerable up until that very moment, how wrong he was.

If only he had looked harder, if the brim of the man's hat had not covered his eyes, if the light of the moon shone just a little brighter. Perhaps then he could have engraved the then mysterious man's face and voice into his mind. Things certainly would have been different had he paid more attention when Mac was slain. Hosea, the only man who provided an anchor for what little remained of Dutch's soul, would still be alive.

Soon the day would come which marked a year had passed since the darkest day of their lives for what they initially referred to as their family. It was the day that true tragedy struck, a tragedy which unfolded not by accident, but by design. Up until that point Arthur was unaware that it was of his own making. Orville Swanson reverend by day, demon hunter by night, him and his posse of equally as dangerous men found them for a second time. They came for Dutch, almost killed him too, had it not been for Hosea who sacrificed himself at the very last second.

That moment changed everything.

Arthur world shattered into pieces when he discovered the identity of the man who had hunted them for months. It was the day he learned that he was not only responsible for Hosea's but also Mac Callander's death. A horrifying revelation which he has kept as his most closely guarded secret.

John, faced by the horrors of being a mortal accepted Dutch's offer to be turned on the very next day. As for Dutch, the loss of his friend had changed him, turned him more into a monster. One would argue that a monster can not become more of one, Dutch proved otherwise.

Gone was the rule that no one was to be killed and fed upon in camp. The same could be said for the promise he made to not enthral anyone, as the camp was rapidly filled by his concubines. Worst of all were the hunts he sent the men on, to find food for himself and the others, innocent folk who were taken from the roads or their homes, only to meet a faith worse than death. Where John preferred to feed on those he considered weak and incapable to care for themselves, Dutch had a preference for them who were young, beautiful and strong. It made the blood taste better, Dutch had told him.

Arthur sighed when he stood at the bottom of the stairs. This is why Dutch wanted him up there, because he belonged in the same group as Dutch's favourite meal. Young and strong, the beautiful he disagreed with.

His fingers brushed over the swelled skin on his arm. Not Dutch's most favoured spot to drink from, but the safest. The man easily lost control whenever he sank his teeth into the necks of his victims, drained them faster than their bodies could cope with.

“Hey Morgan. Since you seem to have nothing better to do, go tend to the livestock.”

Arthur's hands balled up into fists.

Micah.

The worst of the worst. Why Dutch had chosen him to be the second one to receive his _gift_ went beyond any realm of comprehension. That bastard was reckless, ruthless and self serving even before he became a bloodsucking fiend. Now he was all of those with added strength and an eternity to do so.

“Dutch needs me, find someone else.” He didn't want to go down there, never had.

“That sounds like a you problem. You've been given an order, follow it.” Micah drawled.

It took a second, an all hairs up on the back of his neck second for Micah to be stood right behind him, the man's fowl breath hot against his ear. They were fast, silent and deadly.

“Send someone else Micah, I ain't going down there,” Arthur swallowed deeply, he knew Micah wouldn't let him off so easily.

It happened faster than Arthur's mortal body had time to process. He was grabbed the neck, his back now pressed against the wall. It didn't take long for his vision to blur, the grip so painful and hard as he gasped for air. It was as if he weighed nothing to Micah when the man pushed him further up against the wall, until his feet no longer stood on the wooden floor. A strangled outcry showed how much it hurt.

“Listen here you pathetic runt. You are nothing to me any more, a tiny bug I could squash without breaking into a sweat.” Micah snarled, teeth bared. Not his normal teeth, when emotions went high they were unable to hide their true appearance. Canines turned into sharp, deadly looking fangs. It wasn't the teeth but their eyes which unnerved him the most. The iris changed to an orange sheen, any man would flee if that greeted him in the darkness of the night. He certainly had when he was first faced with it.

“You're damned lucky that Dutch has taken a liking to you in spite of your disrespectful refusal to accept his gift.” Micah's eyes narrowed.

Arthur's mouth opened and closed, unable to speak as his larynx was being crushed.

“Though I should be grateful that you don't want it, now that I can finally shut your wise cracking ass up.” Micah sneered.

Arthur's fingers wrapped around Micah's arm in what was a desperate attempt to pull free. Micah was right, the moment Dutch had turned him into an even bigger monster, the bastard had chosen him to take the brunt of the fallout from those egomaniac tendencies of his. Worst of all, he didn't have a choice, they had a hierarchy which only Dutch stood above. Dutch being the oldest and strongest, and thus their leader, then John and Micah, because they were now the only young-bloods of their clan. Only then came the men, the ones who were still mortal, and lastly the women Dutch had captured in his spell.

“That's quite enough Mr. Bell,” Dutch called out from the top of the stairs. No doubt drawn to the sounds of Arthur who gasped for air. It was incredible how well they could hear, also impossible to sneak up on one for a surprise attack. Many had tried, all had failed.

“He needs to be put in his place.” Micah stared into Arthur's now unfocused eyes.

“Micah!” Dutch boomed, loud enough for it to echo throughout the hallway.

Micah's expression changed immediately, no longer did his face show any signs of the monster underneath. He let go of Arthur, who immediately slumped down as he gasped and coughed for air. 

“You know the rules Arthur, do as he says, then join me in my chambers.” Dutch said before he returned to his room.

“You heard the boss, move your ass, runt. That livestock needs feeding.” Micah sneered down at him. Kicked him hard against his thigh for good measure.

Sadistic bastard.

Arthur rubbed his neck, groaned, got to his feet and left the house, towards Mr. Pearson's wagon.

“Don't.” Arthur said before Pearson could utter a word, he knew what the man stared at. His neck likely showed the markings of Micah's abuse.

“Need food for... you know.” He mumbled, unable to maintain eye contact.

“Right, give me a moment to get something ready Mr. Morgan.” Pearson said as he started to gather some items.

Whenever Micah taunted and abused him, he always felt so puny and insignificant. He had gotten so used to being the strongest, aside from Dutch. Both John and Micah had now surpassed him, and soon the others would follow. Pearson, Lenny, Sean, Bill and Javier, they all worked hard to be loyal, to prove themselves until Dutch would grant them that which they desired. But not Kieran, like him he had also chosen to not be turned. The only reason he stayed was for protection, took good care of their horses too. In return Dutch had granted him immunity, marked his skin with his insignia, a sign to other clans that he was off limits. A great blessing for those who were otherwise considered to be fair game, one he had refused, much to Dutch's dismay. Being Dutch's evening snack left him marked enough as it was, he didn't want a permanent reminder of the hell he lived in.

Arthur closed his eyes. Sometimes he wished he had never learned about their existence, or that he could be enthralled like one of the women and just meander about like a soulless body. Blissfully unaware of the horrors which walked this earth.

~~~

He was twenty-four at the time, picked up on the streets by Dutch a few months before John. Hosea had opposed Dutch's plan to take him in. At first he couldn't understand why, thought Hosea simply saw no potential in him. A question unanswered until that unfaithful night, five years after he had first joined them.

“Here's five dollars, get me a nice bottle of bourbon.” Dutch handed him a few coins. He hissed, grabbed hold of his side and grimaced.

“You sure we shouldn't be looking for a doctor?” Arthur's eyes were on Dutch's side.

“I'll be fine son, run along.” Dutch straightened himself, smiled down at him.

“Can I ride The Duke on our way back to camp?” Arthur beamed at the Black Arabian.

“No you can not.” Dutch chuckled, patted his stallion on the side of it's neck. “This young bastard almost bucks me on the best of days. We'll find you a suitable horse soon enough.”

“I miss Belle, she was a fine mare.” Arthur sighed.

“Go, before they close, wait for me here.” Dutch glanced around the near empty street of the small trading outpost.

“Where are you going?” Arthur asked, Dutch's narrowed eyes told him all he needed to know, he hurried into the small general store. It's owner eyed him warily, probably convinced he was here to steal something.

His knowledge of bourbon was non-existent, he knew which brand Dutch liked but couldn't find it among this limited stock. Arthur decided to buy the most expensive one he could afford, hoped that would suffice. He paid for the item and left, patted the few chocolate treats which he slipped into his pockets when the shopkeeper glanced away for a moment. The bottle he stored inside Dutch's saddlebag.

“It's okay boy, ain't gonna ride ya, don't kick me.” Arthur stepped back as soon as he could, that horse had a lot of spunk and wouldn't hesitate to knock him off his boots if it wanted to. He lit a cigarette, pulled a few times on it as he waited for Dutch. It was cold, the world around him only visible by the grace of the bright moon.

He heard a strange noise, pushed the brim of his hat up and glanced around. It sounded like a person, but there was no one around. All three stores now had their lights out, the dusty street emptier than a dried out well.

He shrugged his shoulders, pressed his back against the wooden support of the stores structure. He was about to light another smoke when his ears perked up again, even The Duke's ears were pointed in the direction he suspected it came from.

Dutch could be in trouble, he thought, revolver already in hand. It wasn't like the man to be late. He took a few careful steps off to the side of the building, towards it's back. The noise became more distinct, yet more strange. Something loudly slurped around the corner, something big.

Arthur held his breath as he carefully cocked back the hammer on his revolver. The surrounding area so desolate and devoid of noise that his action sounded ten times louder than expected.

A soft whimper, clearly muffled. It was definitely a person. He stepped forward as lightly as he could, revolver aimed ahead of him. The corner of the building was now but a step away, a deep breath, he steadied himself, ready to take a shot if needed. In one swift leap he crossed the required distance to finally understand what transpired here.

Two figures, one smaller than the other, a man and a woman. A hand covered the woman's mouth, a hand adorned by two golden rings which stood out in the light of the full moon.

Arthur gasped, already knew that the man was Dutch, even though his face was buried in the woman's neck as he stood behind her. It wasn't like Dutch to do this, to assault an innocent in the darkness of the night. His mentor had always told him to be mindful of those who were harmless.

“D-Dutch?” He almost whispered.

Dutch's head flew up immediately, his eyes filled with a soft orange glow, teeth sharper than a cougars.

Arthur stepped back at the sight, there was an ungodly amount of blood on Dutch's chin, more on the woman's neck.

“Arthur.” Dutch growled, blood covered teeth still bared.

Arthur stepped back further, faster, too fast. He lost his balance, tripped over his own feet and hit the ground, ass first. Terror filled eyes remained locked on Dutch as the man let go of his victim, her body dropped like a sack of sand.

He crawled backwards, abandoned his revolver, practically screamed when Dutch stepped towards him. It was then that he hurried to his feet and bolted away from the man who called out for him. 

Arthur ran, as hard and fast as he could, past all the buildings, towards the forests ahead. Smaller, low hanging branches continuously smacked against his face as he made his way through. He had no idea how long he'd been running, no idea if that monster pursued him. All he knew was that he had to make it back to camp before his body gave up.

His side hurt like hell and his legs were on fire when he finally reached the small clearing among the trees. The light from the fire outside the first of two tents offered a temporary reprieve as he stormed towards it and the man who was seated beside it.

“H... Ho-” He wheezed, dropped to his knees as soon as he arrived.

“Arthur?!” Hosea dropped his book and hurried over to him. “What's wrong?”

“D-Du-” He tried to get the words out, not now he thought, desperate for a few more seconds of energy so he could explain why they had to run.

“Did something happen to Dutch?” Hosea pulled him over to the chair as John emerged from the other tent.

“Bring us some water.” Hosea immediately ordered John.

“Du-Dutch, he... he's-” The words started to flow a bit better, too little too late as Dutch rode up to them.

Arthur jumped up from the chair with a burst of adrenaline. 

“J-John get over here. Get away from him.” Arthur's chest still heaved.

“Son, I need you to calm down.” Dutch hopped off his horse.

“Stay away from us!” Arthur shouted, he reached for Hosea's gun belt, removed the man's revolver from it's holster and aimed it at Dutch.

“Arthur?!” Hosea halted mid step when Arthur's free hand pushed against his chest.

“John get over here!” He shouted again at the younger man who seemed as confused as Hosea sounded.

“Arthur please.” Dutch raised his hands as he slowly stepped closer to the opposite side of the fire from where Arthur and Hosea stood.

“He.. he's a monster, a demon. I saw it Hosea, h-his eyes glowed and his teeth be like those of a beast. He k-killed a woman, drank the blood right out of her body. I saw it I swear!”

“You been drinking you crazy fool?” John stood next to Dutch, his eyes on the gun in Arthur's hand.

“Hosea you gotta believe me, he'll kill us all.” Arthur's hand shook fiercely, but he kept the gun aimed at Dutch's chest.

“Can someone tell him he's crazy and to drop the gun?” John's head danced between Dutch and Hosea. His mentors remained silent as they stared at each other.

“Dutch? Hosea?” John frowned.

“Lower the gun, boy.” Dutch's gaze shifted to Arthur.

“S-step back, I swear I'll shoot. We're leaving, you ain't following us.” He cocked the hammer back.

“Arthur we'll do no such thing.” Hosea quickly added.

“I said, _lower_ the gun.” Dutch repeated as he stepped towards Arthur.

Arthur stepped back until his body pressed against Hosea's, his finger itched against the trigger. One little squeeze was all it would take. He probably should, given what he had seen, how close they all slept next to whatever it is that Dutch was. How long would it be before he'd do the same to them? Why was it that the man now appeared as normal as they did?

Arthur frowned, couldn't make sense of it.

“Arthur, I won't ask again, you will stop aiming a gun at me. Show some respect for the man who took you in,” Dutch threatened.

“Y-you ain't no m-man.” He stammered, how weak he must seem to the others. Neither Hosea nor John would follow him if he couldn't hold it together and show that he could keep them safe.

“I said lower the damned gun!” Dutch shouted, and in that moment his eyes lit up with that same orange hue from before.

All of a sudden, everything around him became muffled. John's voice no more than a faint, distant noise as he stood there. Arthur barely moved while Hosea attempted to pry the gun from his hand as it's barrel still smoked. He was frozen in time, wide eyes stared at the hole he left in Dutch's chest, right where the man's heart would be. Only when Dutch fell over and landed flat on his back did it seem like he caught up again to the world.

“You son of a-, you killed him!” John had drawn his own revolver, now aimed it at Arthur. “I'll shoot you for what you done!”

John's gun fully returned him to the reality of the situation he placed himself in. He shoved Hosea, kept a firm grip on the man's gun and aimed it at John.

“Y-you is one of them, ain't ya?” He narrowed his eyes at John, suspicious of how reluctant the boy had been to believe him.

John cocked back the hammer of his gun, his eyes dark and filled with contempt as he stood next to Dutch's motionless body.

“Hey! Hey!” Hosea immediately positioned himself in front of Arthur, arms raised at John.

Arthur still attempted to aim at John, now concerned that he was like Dutch and might shoot Hosea as the older man positioned himself to shield him from any bullets.

Hosea reached behind himself, pulled Arthur to a point where he was fully protected by the man's body.

Arthur leaned sideways, his arm fought against Hosea's hand in an attempt to aim the gun towards where it mattered.

“That's enough! Both of you.” 

The voice made every fibre of Arthur's body come to an immediate halt. During his brief scuffle he hadn't seen that Dutch had gotten back to his feet, nor that he positioned himself in front of John and equally kept him and his gun at bay, like Hosea had done to him.

“H-how?” Arthur's mouth remained agape while he stared at the hole in Dutch's shirt. The only hole he saw, no longer was there any sign that the man had just been pierced by a bullet. A bullet which would have killed him.

Not would, should.

“D-Dutch?” John stepped back, seemed as surprised as Arthur was.

“ _Now_ are the two of you ready to listen?” Dutch asked as he dusted himself off.

John holstered his gun after a long stare from Dutch. Arthur on the other hand, had not. He was stunned, too stunned to comply or resist as Hosea finally managed to pry the weapon out of his hand.

“It's best if I talk to him.” Hosea said, one hand rested on Arthur's shoulder.

The hand on his shoulder was joined by another, they gently urged him onward, towards his and John's tent.

“How did you do that?” He heard John say with what sounded like fascination as opposed to fear.

“Sit down, please.” Hosea held an arm out to Arthur's cot, still guided him along.

“H-how long have you known?” Once seated, it finally dawned on him that Hosea wasn't the least bit shocked at Dutch's miracle recovery from a bullet in the heart.

“Before we start, I need you to understand that Dutch would never harm either of you. You are safe here, safer than anywhere else. We're all under his protection.” Hosea sat down on John's cot, opposite of him.

Arthur was speechless, he trusted Hosea. Couldn't understand how or why they had kept this a secret. If he knew about this from the beginning, he would have never joined them. The longer he thought about it, the more certain strange occurrences in the past few months started to make sense. Dutch had been shot a few times, in places where it should have hurt more than it seemingly had, every time the man recovered at a remarkable speed.

 _'It's all that good bourbon and fine dining'_ Dutch always joked. A few of those bullets had been intended for him, surely would have ended his life long ago if Dutch hadn't somehow moved faster than the bullets themselves to catch them with his own body.

Dutch had saved his life several times over. So was this indeed a good thing like Hosea claimed? That they were safe as long as he took a liking to them? What would happen if he stopped caring? If the monster took over and decided to attack them, drain the blood from their bodies like with that woman. There was no way he'd be able to protect Hosea or John against a thing which could walk away from a bullet to the chest.

How could he stop this? Who could he ask for help on how to rid Dutch of the demon inside of him?

“Arthur I'm trying to explain it. Arthur are you listening? Arthur?!”

~~~

“Arthur?!”

He glanced up at Pearson who held on to a basket filled with food and a pitcher of water.

“Huh?” Arthur stared at the items, blinked a few times. “Right, sorry,” he mumbled.

With the items in hand, Arthur made his way over to the basement door, the rug on top of it had been moved aside already. He reached down for the lantern which stood on the floor, turned it on and hung it from his belt. Arthur closed his eyes, took a deep breath before he unlocked the latch and pulled the door open. It was several steps down until he set foot on level ground, the light on his belt enough to illuminate all of the tiny room in which he now stood.

The metallic smell almost made him gag, it always had. His gaze remained fixed on the brick wall ahead of him. He heard the chains rattle on either side of him, but he couldn't look just yet.

God damned Micah always choose him to do this.

“P-please h-help.” A weak voice whispered from his left.

Arthur closed his eyes, his mind screamed for him to flee, to rush up those stairs, close the door and pretend this room didn't exist. Micah wouldn't tolerate that, bastard would lock him in here with them like he had done in the past. There had been no objection from Dutch either, rules were meant to be followed and Dutch agreed that Micah had chosen a suitable punishment.

He set the basket with food and pitcher down on the chair in front of him, the only piece of furniture in the entire room. He took his time to fill an empty cup with some water, delayed the inevitable for as long as he could.

With the cup and some bread in hand he turned to his right where a hefty man sat against the wall, wrists shackled and anchored to the wall above his head. The man seemed still, too still. Arthur poked his foot with his own.

The poor soul jerked up, eyes wide in fear as they danced around the room. Almost immediately he started to mumble, incoherent at first, the words spoken too fast to understand.

“Miserere mei, Deus.” The man repeated the words over and over.

Arthur crouched down, he recognized the words to be Latin from Hosea's teachings, but had no idea what they meant. His guess that this man was a priest had probably been correct. No doubt Micah had chosen and brought him here. If only to rub the irony straight into God's face.

“Domine fortitudinem mihi da.“ The man closed his eyes as he continued to repeat the new phrase.

“Got some water for you, mister- eh, father.” Arthur held the cup to his lips, it was emptied fast, so he offered him another, and some bread after that.

A fresh catch, evident by what little dried blood had made it's way down the priests neck. Poor bastard had no idea how much and for how long he'd suffer down here, if he knew, he wouldn't have been so eager to accept the food which was offered to him. Arthur sighed, his thoughts interrupted by the chains which rattled behind him. One more, he thought, then he could get the hell out of here.

“Hey.” He spoke as softly as he could when he crouched down in front of the petite woman. She flinched when he moved a few strands of hair out her face. Pressed herself against the wall her arms were chained to, high above her head.

“Sssh, its okay. It's Arthur.”

“P-please let me go, please mister, I beg of you to have mercy.” She whimpered with what little energy she had left.

She looked pale, the only clean spots on her face appeared as lines from where her tears had previously been. Her scrawny neck was caked with blood, fresh on top of dry where it had flowed down over her shoulder and left a crimson red stain in her tattered dress.

“Drink this.” He brought the cup to her lips, she refused, turned her head away.

“Miss, you know you have to, lest you want _him_ to come down here and force you.” His eyes were on the purple bruise across her cheek, it stood out on against her ghostly white shade. She knew he meant Micah, closed her eyes and unleashed a fresh set of tears. At least she opened her mouth, understood that she had to allow him to feed her or else suffer the consequences of her defiance, like she had done in the past.

Five days.

That was how long she had been chained up in this hole in the ground which reeked of blood, death and despair. He couldn't help but glance to his right, where a set of chains dangled from the wall. The spot had previously been occupied by a young man, her husband to be she had told him. The now empty spot a stark reminder that the two of them would never be able to hold each other again, that life as they knew it would never return.

Like him, she was going to die down here. Many times had he pleaded with Dutch to let them go after a few feedings, his requests always landed on deaf ears.

_'If we let them go, word will reach the hunters and they'll be on our backs before you know it, is that what you want Arthur? Have you forgotten about what happened to Hosea? Men like Swanson don't care who they kill, they'll destroy anyone in their path to get what they want.'_

How could he forget about Hosea. The only mortal who had been capable of keeping Dutch in check. These things would never have transpired if Hosea were still alive, back then Dutch rarely killed someone. He drained a few too much whenever he had to recover from a serious injury, but outside of that he took great care to ensure their survival, as per Hosea's insistence.

Now there was no Hosea to stop his descent into madness.

Arthur swallowed, he hated this, hated it more than ten Micah's. There was nothing he could say or do which would make things better for her. Captured and held in captivity to be treated worse than _livestock_ as Micah called them. Innocent folk who were robbed from everything life had to offer them just so these blood suckers could continue to exist.

If he had more blood to give, he'd gladly let even someone as despicable as Micah feed on him. Anything to prevent more damned souls from spending their last days in this hellhole. But he couldn't, his body was barely strong enough to provide Dutch enough sustenance. It was impossible for him to do the same for both John and Micah. Once again his own weakness had gotten in the way of his desire to help the helpless.

Arthur encouraged the woman to drink another glass of water and fed her some bread. They wanted them nourished, strong enough to regain their blood faster. She chewed slowly, he knew she did that to keep him here longer. The only other living soul she had seen in days who wasn't here to literally drain the life from her. He usually talked to her, did what he could to keep her mind away from the nightmare she resided in.

Not today.

He didn't have it in him, drained from the days events, the worst was yet to come. Arthur snorted at his own thoughts. Worst to come... at least he wasn't chained up, treated as nothing more than a meal. When had he changed to be so selfish and uncaring towards the plight of those who were taken to be kept down here? No excuse merited his decision to not do everything he could to make them as comfortable as possible throughout their ordeal. He came down here less and less, barely took the time to speak with them. Because he couldn't, too weak to find the right words to say, too afraid to linger for longer than he had to. Afraid that eventually Dutch would tire of him, of his refusal to be marked or gifted. That he would be the one chained up in the dark, desperate for a mortal to come down and offer him a brief reprieve from this dark abyss.

When his eyes met with hers he could feel the saliva being drained from his mouth, his throat scratchy and dry. The desperation, the pain, a silent plea to be put out of her misery, there was so much of it in there. 

He couldn't.

“D-don't leave me.” She begged as Arthur got up.

“Miss, I... I'm sorry.” He lost the strength to look at her, the willpower to be here and offer her whatever support he could. He gathered his items, one fast footstep after the other as he ascended the stairs. Unsurprisingly he found himself face to face with Micah, who smirked at him as he slowly, one by one, took the tip of each finger in his mouth and sucked on them.

Arthur took a few steps to pass him, but was stopped by a painful grip on his arm.

“You left the door open.” Micah said.

Arthur opened his mouth for a snark reply, decided against it when Micah's grip tightened. The door had to remain closed at all times. Their prisoners were to be kept in secret. In case the law or someone else came by. It would be too hard to explain this away, they'd be forced to kill whoever stumbled upon their secret. Else they'd risk the law to find out, from there word would travel fast until Swanson and his hunters would descend upon them once more.

Perhaps that would be the best outcome, he briefly thought. After all, Swanson knew how to vanquish them and possessed the means to do so. No, Micah he'd love to see dead and gone, but not Dutch or John.

“Move it runt.” Micah pushed him back towards the door.

He hurried to close and lock it, then covered it with the carpet. The lamp on his belt was set down, the food and water returned to Pearson. Now he was back to where he started when he first entered the building on this accursed day; at the bottom of the stairs as he glanced up to where Dutch's room was.

It was his turn to be food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, with 3 active, WIP long-fics I am officially a masochist. I've had this idea in my head for some time. In the last few days it overshadowed my ability to be creative with my other stories, so I figured I'd get the start of it out of the way and written down. Then I felt eager to post it, so here it is. I'm not sure how an AU of this nature will be received in this fandom, but I hope that those of you who give it a chance will enjoy it.
> 
> Thank you for reading, feedback is always very much appreciated.
> 
> \-- Special thanks to a dear friend who beta read this for me, you know who you are! <3 --


	2. Atonement

“Enter.”

Arthur pushed the door to Dutch's room open, started to roll his sleeve up as soon as he closed it behind him. In the blink of an eye Dutch stood in front him, his hands were placed against the door, on either side of Arthur's head.

“There's no need for us to get straight to business.” Dutch said.

“Just get it over with.”

“There are so many others things we could do first.” Dutch drawled, leaned in for a kiss.

Arthur turned his head away, didn't like being pinned with nowhere to go.

“Hm.” Dutch straightened up. “Only you can make bringing someone food and water more complicated than it needs to be.”

Arthur turned his head towards Dutch. “Someone? So you admit they're people?”

“Not this again.” Dutch rolled his eyes, stepped away from Arthur.

“Let the woman go Dutch, it's been five days. She don't know where she is, there ain't no danger in doing so.”

“Come.” Dutch opened a bottle of bourbon and filled two glasses.

“End of conversation, really?” Arthur wasn't going to let it go this easily.

“I'm considering it, sit.” Dutch waited until Arthur was seated on the sofa, then held a glass out to him.

“Can't they just feed on someone from camp? Like you do.” Arthur accepted the glass from Dutch.

“We've been over this. Micah and John are young-bloods, they need to feed more often as their bodies adapt to the new abilities they've acquired.”

Arthur's shoulders sagged. “Five days Dutch, she ain't got another feeding left in her.”

“Fine.” Dutch said after a long silence.

Arthur raised his head, looked up at Dutch, brows raised.

“On one condition. You go out and find a similar replacement for her.” Dutch stared down at him.

Arthur chuckled sarcastically, but Dutch's expression remained unchanged.

“You ain't serious, you know I don't do that shit.” Arthur spat.

“Then you will stop complaining about it.” Dutch replied.

Arthur turned his head away, searched his mind for a compromise. “I... I can't abduct no woman. But... I could bring a man.” He cleared his throat, struggled to believe that he was willing to do that.

“Micah prefers feisty women. It's that or nothing Arthur.”

“Then tell him to _prefer_ something else.” Arthur set his glass down on the low-lying table, then rose up to his feet.

“I will _not_ deny my best soldier any pleasure because it's inconvenient to you.” Dutch's eyes narrowed.

Arthur snorted. Micah being his best, laughable, but sadly the truth.

“Unless...” Dutch's expression changed, his brows were raised as he eyed Arthur expectantly. 

Arthur's eyes met Dutch's gaze. “No, don't want your damned gift, not now, not never.”

“Oh how you stare at me with such contempt in your eyes.” Dutch shook his head ever so slightly.

Arthur lowered his head, it was true, he absolutely despised what Dutch was, what the man had to do to survive.

“My dear boy, I would have forced it upon you long ago if I wasn't certain you'd purposely get yourself killed.” Dutch reached out, brushed the back of his hand against Arthur's cheek.

“Think of how strong you already are. With my powers you'd be a force like no other, together we could accomplish so much.” Dutch lifted the glass and pushed it back into Arthur's hand.

Arthur stared at the glass in his hands, the first of several he'd have before Dutch would sink his fangs into him. It seemed ridiculous that his blood somehow tasted better after a few shots. But this was Dutch, a man as pretentious as it gets. Only Dutch could make something as simple as taking a piss more exuberant than it was.

“How did Sean handle himself on the train job?” Dutch had the bottle in his hand, waited to refill Arthur's glass.

He threw his head back, downed the glass in one continuous gulp. Dutch was impatient, hungered for his meal.

“Same as always, reckless, loud-mouthed, missed every shot that mattered.” Arthur held his glass out.

“Work him harder, I need him ready.” Dutch filled it to the brim.

“How exactly am I supposed to do that? That boy's head ain't never on his shoulders.” He downed it in one go, needed the strong alcohol more than he realized.

“We still have four openings to fill with young-bloods. I don't need to inform you how imperative it is that we do this post-haste.” Dutch filled Arthur's glass a third time.

“I still don't get it,” Arthur frowned. “Why can Colm's clan have twelve and you only six?” Only recently had he started to learn about the inner workings of their kind.

“Because Colm brings in more money for the council.” Dutch said with no small amount of contempt.

“Don't sound fair, with more young-blood's it's easier to bring in more. How are you ever gonna keep up?” 

“We will keep up by recruiting the best of the best. Colm only goes for the biggest and strongest. I seek more qualities than just strength in mine.”

"It still don't make sense to me.” Arthur said.

This was the first time he ever showed any interest in all their rules and regulations. Dutch had only been a member of the council for a few months, had refused to join their ranks for decades. Whatever riches he acquired were his to keep, had been his reason. But Cornwall kept sending young-bloods to kill those who Dutch had gifted. If he was to live in Cornwall's vast territory, he had to join the council, those were the rules for all elders. The limitations on how many each elder could gift, Dutch had told him, had been to ensure that there was enough food around for the rest of them. This was a new law among them, established after they realized they wiped out so many towns that it became harder to frequently feed and hide from those who hunted them.

“It doesn't have to make sense to you, those are our rules. All clans contribute.”

“You mean you all give away your riches so Cornwall can live his precious life of luxury.” Arthur scoffed.

“It's not for nothing, those who contribute more can build a bigger clan.”

“But never as big as his, sounds mighty unfair.” Arthur said.

“He was the first of our lineage, that grants him the power to do as he pleases, until someone takes his place.” Dutch took a large swig of his own glass.

“Assuming you'll be trying just that?” Arthur knew the answer, Dutch's thirst for power was no secret.

“Eventually.” Dutch stared ahead of himself, seemingly lost in thought. He did this for some time, until he blinked a few times, set his glass back down.

“For now it's impossible without a proper plan. His young-bloods have served him for so long, even a single one of them is almost as strong as I am. I can't challenge them, nor him.” Dutch said, broke his own silence.

“You think Colm wants the same as you?”

Dutch snorted, “Of course, but I wouldn't trust Colm O'Driscoll as far as I could throw him. Same goes for Molly O'Shea, that vile woman and her fascination with the occult. The other three won't pose much of a hindrance, not that they would dare to stand against Cornwall.”

“Can't we just continue as we is? Things be fine, sounds like you want an all out war.”

“Hardly. All I have to do is kill Cornwall and take his place as leader of the council, the others will have no choice but to obey me.”

“Until they figure out how to kill you and take your place.” 

“They can certainly try,” Dutch scoffed.

“We need more young-bloods, Arthur.”

“Then get John and Micah on it, not me.”

“No. I trust your judgement more than theirs. Yet another reason why you should accept my most generous offer.”

“No.” He said, tight lipped.

“Immortality Arthur, you'll be young and beautiful forever.” Dutch stepped closer to him.

“No.” Arthur repeated.

“Do you not want to be with me for all eternity?” Dutch cooed.

Arthur turned his head away. Of course he did, but at what cost? His soul, his sanity? Did he still possess either of those after all the horrors he had witnessed?

“You are considering it.” Dutch leaned in, planted a kiss against Arthur's exposed neck.

“More like wondering what it would take to get you to shut up about it.”

“Easy, remember who you're talking to.” Dutch pulled him closer, his nose brushed against Arthur's cheek as he moved upward to nibble on his earlobe.

“Sorry,” he muttered, knew it was best to not anger Dutch whenever he hovered so closely. No doubt the man was already enamoured by the blood in his veins.

“I want you in more ways than one.” Dutch whispered into his ear.

Arthur closed his eyes. What Dutch implied was that he wanted him in bed, to be inside of him. Get him all worked up so his blood pumped faster before he fed on him. A feast, Dutch called it. Admittedly the experience wasn't all bad, he was human, had needs of his own, there was no shame in that.

“What about Mr. Summers?” Dutch took a step backwards, refilled their drinks. 

“Lenny? Too brazen, almost got hisself killed a few days ago, rushed out alone for a stage, the fool.” Arthur shook his head.

Dutch muttered a few curses. “Mr. Smith was more than qualified.”

“Charles left over a month ago. He would never have joined. You should have been honest when you first brought him to camp.”

“I didn't think of him as a man with such strong morals.” Dutch complained.

“You misjudged a man? Hold on, lemme sit to process this shocking revelation.” Arthur scoffed, obviously referred to Micah.

Dutch tilted his head at him, mouth agape, one eye slightly narrowed.

“Sorry.” Arthur raised his hands in defeat, aware that he really pushed his limits today. Damn had it been a bad day, alcohol wasn't helping him either, made him more loose-lipped.

“Bill isn't ready either, I need more time to see how loyal he is.” Dutch continued.

“Just give them your gift shit, then see how it goes. All this drama, do things as Colm does, seems to be working fine for him.” Arthur said.

“Not when they're hardly in control of themselves as mortals. I need strong, loyal soldiers, not rampant maniacs.”

Arthur pulled his brows together. “Micah.”

“Micah, in spite of being gifted later than John, has surpassed him in strength. That alone is remarkable. I need more men like him.”

“Thought you didn't want rampant maniacs.” Arthur mumbled.

Dutch slammed the bottle down on the table, the empty glasses on top of it rattled, yet somehow the bottle hadn't been smashed into pieces.

“Do _not_ question my decisions, boy!” Dutch threatened.

“Fine, just consider yourself warned when his next killing spree will get you all exposed.”

Dutch grabbed hold of Arthur's shirts collar and lifted him.

“Dutch?!” Arthur grunted, eyes wide. His boots were several inches above the floor as he was moved towards the wall behind him. His back slammed against it, none too gently. One hand tightly gripped his jaw and forced his head to the side, the position left his neck exposed.

“Dutch, stop.” Arthur squirmed as much as he could. In the corner of his eye he could see the orange sheen in Dutch's, could hear the growl which emanated from behind those sharp canines.

“I've had quite enough of your insolence.” Dutch growled.

“D-Dutch it's me, don't...” His voice trembled, racked with fear of what was to come if Dutch wouldn't snap out of it.

“Please don't,” he begged. The first and only time Dutch had drained him at the neck, almost killed him. The man had been unable to stop himself, said it felt so euphoric, that it was the best thing he had ever tasted. After he profusely apologized for days, Hosea had been livid, made Dutch promise he'd never drink from him again. Which he hadn't, not until after Hosea passed away. 

“You'll kill me.” Arthur said through hitched breaths. He squeezed his eyes shut. When angered, Dutch possessed no self-control whatsoever, he'd surely kill him, unintentionally or not.

The hand on his jaw disappeared, he opened one eye, then the other. Dutch appeared normal again, not a single trace of the monster under his skin.

“Get out.” Dutch quietly said.

Arthur lowered his head, felt guilty that he pushed Dutch far enough to want him gone. He held his arm out to the man, steadied it with his other hand as it shook too much.

“My appetite for you has diminished.”

“But-”

“Out!” Dutch shouted.

Arthur hurried for the door, slammed it shut behind him. He hurried down the stairs, his foot was about to take the last step when Micah emerged from the dark doorway on his left. The man clapped at him, slowly.

Of course the bastard had listened in on them.

“Way to piss the boss off, runt.” Micah smirked.

Arthur's teeth gritted together, only Micah could get to him so easily. Yet again the copious amounts of alcohol he had just consumed worked against him.

“Sounded like you almost cried, were you scared?” Micah spoke with the most condescending tone possible.

His hands balled up into fists, mouth tight lipped as he stood there. He had to stop himself, it was easy to forget how reversed their positions now were. This is what Micah fished for, for him to lash out so he'd have a valid excuse to beat him. If he threw the first punch, Dutch would take Micah's side, and he'd be punished for not respecting the rules.

“Come on runt, you know you want to.” Micah turned his cheek towards Arthur, pointed at it.

“Leave me be, I ain't biting.” He moved on, eager to leave the building.

“Good idea, I could do with a bite. She's a very pretty woman, isn't she? Tastes good too.” Micah smacked his lips.

Arthur froze, stood there for a few seconds before he turned around with a scowl on his face.

Micah sneered, arms held out in front of him as he motioned a 'come at me' with his hands.

It would be worth it, Arthur thought, if only to shut that bastard up for a few minutes. With his mind made up Arthur drew his revolver, aimed at Micah's chest and fired a bullet straight into the man's heart. Unlike Dutch, neither Micah nor John had yet reached a point where they could be faster than a bullet, or even the speed at which he could draw and fire, drunk or not.

Micah's body fell backward, landed with a loud thud, he walked over it.

Click, he cocked the hammer back, fired again into his chest.

Click, another shot, immediately followed by three more shots.

Click, click, click.

Empty.

Worth it.

Arthur stood there, gun still aimed down at the lifeless body as his chest heaved.

“Sweet mother of Jesus!” Sean called out as soon as he rushed in. Bill and Lenny expressed the same kind of surprise next to him.

“Morgan have you completely lost it?!” John walked up to him, stared down at Micah's body. “Shit, shit shit, give me the gun, I'll tell him I did it.”

“No!” He pulled his hand away when John attempted to take the gun. “I don't give a damn, bastard had it coming.”

Arthur trembled, his legs felt weak. He didn't have to look up, knew that Dutch probably stood above them, at the top of the stairs.

“Dutch... it weren't Arthur, it was me.” John hastily said.

Arthur closed his eyes. His assumption about Dutch already being present was correct.

“Everybody out. Except for you, John.” Dutch calmly said, too calmly.

His name wasn't mentioned, but he knew that he shouldn't move a muscle while Dutch decided what the punishment for his transgression would be.

“You think it wise to plot against me, John?” Dutch slowly descended the stairs.

“N-no sir.” John meekly said.

“But you did.” Dutch stepped over Micah's sprawled out arm.

“It... I thought-” John started.

“ _Thinking_ is the one thing you weren't doing, son.” 

“You know how Micah gets with him, he don't deserve to be punished for standing up for himself.” John explained.

“ _He_ is a mortal. You chose to lie to me, your creator, for a mortal John, of all things, think on that.” For a second, Dutch's eyes flashed orange.

“It won't happen again, sir.” John quietly said, he lowered his head in submission.

“Ensure that it doesn't.” Dutch stepped closer to Arthur, “as for you...”

Arthur felt as if he shrunk to the size of a fly when Dutch addressed him, he swallowed hard.

“How easily it seems to be for you to forget your place. I've offered you a better position, more times than you deserve. You have the right to refuse, but make no mistake about your place among us.”

“I know.” He said, barely audible.

“You already enjoy more privileges than other mortals, but that can change, and it shall if you continue with your incessant defiance.” Dutch's index finger pushed Arthur's chin up.

Arthur's eyes were locked on Dutch's, the man no longer spoke, stared him down from top to bottom. It felt like he shrunk even further.

“Put him in the hole until tomorrow night.” Dutch side-glanced at John.

“Yes sir.” John immediately moved the carpet and undid the latch on the metal door, he couldn't disobey a direct order.

“Wait... no.” Arthur's world fell apart as soon as he heard the words 'hole' and 'tomorrow.' He stepped backwards, away from Dutch and John.

“Anywhere but there, I'll behave, you have my word.” Arthur holstered his revolver.

“Everyone saw what you did. How would you have me be a respectable leader if I do not punish those who break the rules?” Dutch moved his hands behind his back.

John came over, grabbed hold of Arthur's arm and pulled him along.

“Dutch, show some mercy. I'll be good, I swear.” Arthur pleaded.

“If it were anyone but you, they would have been dead. So do not speak to me about _mercy_.” Dutch snarled.

Micah's chest expanded when he drew in a large amount of air. His eyes shot open, one arm clutched his torso as he groaned in pain.

“You fucking runt.” He growled, stood up, still in obvious pain. “I'll drain you of every last drop of blood.”

“Get to your horse Mr. Bell. I'm famished, we're going to Saint-Denis.” Dutch commanded, he never travelled without a guard.

Micah's chest heaved as his eyes bored into Arthur's skull. It was obvious that he wanted to tear every limb from his assailants body. But Dutch had given him an order, it was impossible for him to refuse or even delay.

Dutch walked past Micah after he confirmed that his command would be followed. Micah followed closely behind him.

“Enjoy the hole, runt. I'll be visiting later.” Micah assured him.

“Dutch!” Arthur, having been dragged halfway down the steps by John, placed his hands on either sides of the entrance, a last ditch effort to resist being imprisoned down there.

“John don't leave me here.” Arthur switched to the last man he could plead with.

“You know I ain't got no choice.” John mumbled, set the lantern down on the chair. 

A hand on Arthur's shoulder forced him down to his knees. He stared up at John, knew the man couldn't resist against Dutch, but he tried regardless of that.

“Promise I won't tell him nothing, they won't be back for hours.” A desperate attempt towards a brief reprieve from his punishment.

“Arthur. You _know_ I can't.” John grabbed hold of Arthur's wrist, brought it up to the first shackle and locked it in.

Arthur fought against him, tried to keep his second hand away from the cold metal, pointless. He was nothing to John, an infant who attempted to wrestle a giant. The lock of the second shackle clicked soon after.

“Won't take the lantern, he said nothing about that.” John's eyes were on the hefty man to his right. He growled, his tongue traced across bared teeth.

“John...” Arthur's voice cracked, it made John focus on him once more, the man closed his eyes, seemed to have been snapped out of his thoughts.

“Gotta leave, I'm sorry Arthur.” John, tempted by the smell hurried up the stairs. Within seconds the door slammed shut and it's lock fell in place.

Arthur's chains rattled as he pulled on them. Turns out his actions weren't worth it at all. Micah had been dead for a few minutes at best, as expected. He, on the other hand, would be locked up in this hellhole for a whole day.

“Hosea.” He sobbed, none of this would be happening if Hosea were still alive. If he hadn't been so frightened and stupid all them years ago.

~~~

Young Arthur took his hat off before he entered the building. It was years since he had been to a place such as this one, and today marked the first time he set foot in a building entirely made out of stone. His head danced around the interior as he walked in the aisle between two rows of benches. The windows, made out of beautifully coloured stained glass left him in awe. Even more impressive were the detailed carved statues which stood on either side of the far the walls. Illuminated by a vast amount of candles. He recognized a few figures in passing, Saint Michael, the archangel, wielding his sword. Opposite of him an equally as detailed statue of Gabriel, another archangel, recognizable by the scepter in his hand.

“Welcome friend, what brings you to the house of the Lord?” A man dressed in black appeared from behind a column. His hair was red with grey patches on each side, he sported a large, curly moustache. 

“You a priest?” It was evident by the man's attire, but his nervousness made his mouth work without thought.

“Reverend.” The man replied with a smile a on his face.

Arthur nodded, cleared his throat,“I ehm...” Arthur's fingers fiddled with the brim of his hat, “need some advice.”

“Then you have come to the right place, let us sit.” 

Arthur followed him to the frontmost row of benches where he sat down next to the man.

“What is it that you seek guidance with?”

“Things...” Arthur shrugged, he practised what he would say on the ride over, still the words were hard to muster up now that the moment to do so was upon him.

“Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage.” The reverend said. 

“Right.” Arthur took a deep breath before he continued, “heard a story from a man who has a friend that's not... like other folk.”

“I see. The man told you what his friend is like?” The reverend stared ahead of himself.

“He ain't sure, it's... something bad, it makes him hurt others, kill them even.” Arthur mumbled the last few words.

“Has this stranger informed the law about his friends afflictions?”

“N-no, he can't. It's uhm, complicated.” Arthur stammered.

“Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed.” The reverend spoke with resolve in his voice.

He turned his head towards the reverend, shook his head. “No, I can't. I care about him. I mean... the stranger cares about his friend.” Arthur closed his eyes, silently cursed at himself.

“Hmm.” The reverend's lips upturned, “then what is that you seek, friend?”

“Guidance, does the book- “Arthur loosely pointed towards the scripture in the reverend's hand. “-mention anything about ridding a man of a demon?”

“A man's heart can be capable of so much evil that we often rationalize it by shifting blame to someone or something else.”

“This is different. I... I've seen it. It only shows itself when he's angry, or fe-, kills.” Arthur wasn't sure why he corrected himself.

“Demons are evil spirits, it stands to reason they would only reveal themselves during acts of debauchery and other heinous crimes.” The reverend said.

“Ain't never heard of no evil spirit that can change a man's face to have fangs and glowing eyes. ” Arthur shook his head as he spoke.

This was the first time since they were seated that the reverend looked at him.

Arthur shifted in his seat, thought he should leave, the man probably believed that he was some crazy street-kid.

“Tell me more, friend.”

Arthur raised his brows, hadn't expected the reverend to be willing to listen any longer. Not after he mentioned the physical change. He told him the whole story of his first encounter with Dutch's inner demon, omitted only names and locations.

“Quite the tale.” The reverend said when Arthur fell silent after the part where he had shot his _friend_ , only to see him be resurrected minutes later.

“You don't believe me.” Arthur lowered his head when his account of events were referred to as a _tale_.

“Friend, I am the only one who will believe you.” The reverend rested a hand on Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur lifted his chin, stared at him through widened eyelids. “You can help?”

“So shall my word be that goes out from my mouth; it shall not return to me empty, but it shall accomplish that which I purpose, and shall succeed in the thing for which I sent it,” said the reverend.

“I ain't too smart reverend, got no clue what that means.” Arthur's cheeks flushed.

“It means I will help you rid your friend of the demon which took residence in his body.”

A glimmer of hope appeared in Arthur's eyes.

“Reverend Swanson,” man held his hand out.

“Arthur Mo- ...Callahan.” He shook the offered hand.

“Why don't you return here tomorrow, I need time to consult some scriptures.” Swanson said.

Arthur nodded, stood up. “I will.”

“Do not tell the demon about our meeting, it must not know that you came to a house of prayer.”

“I won't, thank you reverend.”

“Be safe, Arthur Mo Callahan and remember; be faithful to the Lord, for he will establish you and guard you against the evil one.”

~~~

Chains rattled when Arthur struggled to get his legs out from underneath him. The hardened ground hurt his knees, but not as much as the shackles hurt when they dug into his wrists. He hissed through the pain, finally managed to sit on his ass.

His fault.

It was all his fault. How foolish he had been to trust a stranger. Ignorant towards the chain of events he had set in motion on the day he walked into that house of worship and shook hands with Swanson.

How could he have been so stupid to confide in him. It felt like Swanson was the only man who truly understood how terrified he was of the demon inside of Dutch. The reverend preyed on his fear, lulled him into a false sense of safety and trust. A web of lies was spun around him, he dropped his guard, told them an not once, but twice exactly where they'd be.

~~~

“Tell me boys, what did you think of your first theatre show?” Dutch asked as they exited the building.

“Weren't none to special.” John shrugged.

“Told you Dutch, that boy would give up a horse in order to remain uncultured.” Hosea smirked.

“We'll keep exposing you to the more intricate aspects of a life of luxury, it'll eventually take.” Dutch said, eyes slightly narrowed at Hosea.

“Good luck with that.” Hosea still smiled, “what about you Arthur?”

“Uh, the fire lady was alright.” 

“It was alright?” Dutch let out an exasperated sigh. “Bunch of yokels the two of you.”

“Come now Dutch, you can't expect to cut through a chain with a wooden knife.” Hosea followed John as they three of them walked back to their horses.

Arthur glanced up at the night sky, stars beautiful and bright. The theatre impressed him, more than he cared to admit. He knew John would tease him about being soft if he had.

“It was _alright._ ” Dutch muttered the words as he walked behind them.

The first sharpened piece of wood which came at them, narrowly missed Dutch and struck The Duke straight in it's neck, the poor stallion collapsed immediately.

“Van der Linde, this is the day of your reckoning!” A now familiar group of eight emerged from around the buildings on all sides of them.

The four of them drew their weapons, realized they had nothing to take cover behind. Dutch, in a fit of rage already rushed at the closest two. The two hunters fired at him, missed his heart with every shot of their crossbows. Their weapons still hurt him, slowed him down, still he managed to drag one off his horse and snap his neck in one swift move.

Meanwhile, John, Arthur and Hosea emptied their weapons at the others, two fell, while the rest dismounted and took cover behind around the corners they had emerged from.  
Arthur briefly glanced over at Dutch, who's face was buried inside the neck of the second hunter while he drained every last drop of blood from the man who murdered his beloved horse.

“How many is left?!” John shouted.

“I counted four more.” Hosea replied with equal volume over the bullets that whizzed past their heads.

Arthur glanced over towards Dutch for a second time, but the man was gone, the body of his victim sprawled across the ground. He feared that Dutch had abandoned them, his injuries likely too severe to heal fast enough even after he just fed. But the alleyway was clear for them to take cover in.

“Over here!” He shouted at his friends, dragged John along as he followed Hosea.

“I'm out.” Hosea checked his gun.

“Where's Dutch?” John's eyes darted around the area where he'd last seen the man.

“I... I think he left us.” Arthur stared down at his revolver. Two bullets, four men, they were screwed.

“Dutch would never abandon us,” Hosea interjected.

“Surrender. You have nothing to fear from us if the devil has not left it's spawn inside of you.”

“Is it me or does that sound nastier than intended?” John frowned.

“You got time for jokes?!” Arthur snarled.

“Gentlemen! Seize fire, there are no demons here, as a fellow servant of the Lord I give you my word.” Hosea shouted.

“No servant of God would ally themselves with a creature of darkness.” The voice replied.

Arthur's confused gaze shifted between John and Hosea when they heard screams around them.

“It's Van der Linde, shoot!” The man screamed shortly after he spoke.

“No... no! Mercy, please.” Another scream, from a different man, louder, racked with fear.

The thundering of hooves could be heard, slowly faded into the distance. Arthur still stood at the ready to shoot anyone who came around the corner. What had previously sounded like a battlefield was now replaced with an eery silence.

“Everyone alright?” Dutch appeared around the corner, leaned heavily against the wall, shirt covered in blood from all the injuries he sustained.

“We need to get out of here.” Hosea rushed over to him, threw Dutch's arm over his shoulder for support. “John gather the horses, Arthur, take his other arm.”

Arthur headed over, frowned at Hosea's expression of bewilderment, the man's arm stretched out towards him, pushed against his chest.

“Look out!” Hosea shouted, stepped to his right so his body would shield Dutch's.

Arthur's head snapped to his left, locked on to the mounted man. That black hat, black duster coat, it was the same hunter who had killed Mac not long ago. It was then that his mind registered the crossbow in his hands, the protective position Hosea had assumed. 

“No!” Arthur moved forward, eyes wide, one arm stretched out in the hopes to be able to grasp even the slightest amount of fabric from Hosea's clothes. If he could drag the man away, if he could reach in time. His head turned to the left again, the hunter had taken aim, fired. It moved so fast, he caught a glimpse of it as it zoomed past him. For some reason he had expected a loud impact sound, the sheer size of the wooden stake, the speed at which it had travelled. But he heard nothing, thought it had missed it's target for a moment.

“Hosea!” John shouted from the distance.

Arthur saw it protrude from Hosea's chest, the man still stood straight as John rushed over to them. It dawned on him that he could feel the weight of a gun in his hand, he aimed it at the hunter, cocked the hammer back.

The hunter raised his head, pushed the brim of his hat upward, the street lamp no longer cast a shadow over his face, revealed that curled moustache of his.

Reverend Swanson.

“When justice is done, it is a joy to the righteous but terror to evildoers.” Swanson said.

Arthur could see the smile on his face as their gazes remained interlocked. Swanson nodded at him, tipped his hat even, a gesture so complacent with a gun aimed at him. A gesture intended for a friend, a partner even.

Arthur swallowed deeply, it suddenly dawned on him what he had done. How much of a fool he had been and unintentionally led this man straight to them.

Swanson clicked his tongue, squeezed his legs together as he turned his horse around to ride off.

“Arthur... Arthur!” Dutch shouted.

He turned his head towards Dutch. The man held on to Hosea who's legs no longer supported his weight. Blood, there was so much of it across the man's chest, spilling out of his mouth as he spurted and gasped for air. He had been hit in the lungs, a lethal shot.

“Arthur, help me dammit.” Dutch growled.

He hurried over, helped Dutch lowered Hosea to the ground.

“Stay with him.” Dutch ordered, he got up, bolted in the direction Swanson had rode off to.”

Hosea's had clawed at Arthur's shirt, he tried to speak, but blood continued to pour out of his mouth. Arthur placed his hand against the back of Hosea's head for support.

“Why didn't you shoot him?!” John stood there, completely bewildered.

Arthur glanced up briefly, his mouth opened and closed, he shook his head, lowered his eyes again to Hosea who started to get a few words out. The man's hand grasped on to some fabric of Arthur's shirt, pulled him closer.

“D-Dutch, n-needs you. T-there's g-good in him, Ar- Arthur. G-guide him, d-don't a... don't a-abandon h-him.” Hosea stammered.

“What do we do? We need a doctor.” John paced around in panic. “We need a doctor!” John shouted at the empty streets and alleyways.

“I'm so sorry... 's all my fault.” Arthur sobbed.

“Y-you're a g-good kid, b-both of you. S-stay to.. together, b-be strong.”

Arthur sniffled, nodded at him.

“P-promise m-me you'll... h-help Dutch, k-keep him on the r-right path.”

Arthur shook his head. “I... I don't know how.” He whispered.

“B-believe in.. y-yourself, you'll f-find a w-way.” Hosea grimaced, the fingers of his free hand wrapped around the wooden stake which was embedded in his chest.

“Please don't die.” Arthur begged.

“P-promise, m-me.”

“I... promise, I won't leave him.” Arthur sniffled.

A faint smile appeared on Hosea's face.

“T-th..a-” Hosea's chest fell with one last, long exhale.

Arthur gently lowered Hosea's head, remained on his knees at the man's side.

“No... no! Why didn't you shoot him Arthur?!” John rushed over, dragged Arthur to his feet.

Arthur's mouth was agape, there was so much anger in John's eyes, he could feel the spittle on his face as the boy continued to shout at him.

“Why dammit?!” John shook him.

Arthur's lips quivered. He brought Swanson here, told the man they were going to watch some show. He opened his mouth, ready to confess to John when Dutch approached and dragged the boy away.

“No.” Dutch whispered as he stared down at Hosea's lifeless body.

“Let go of me!” John screamed, squirmed against Dutch's hold on him.

“I lost him.” Dutch said through grit teeth.

Arthur's head shot up towards Dutch. Lost him because Dutch didn't know where he went. But he knew where to find that man. Arthur's lips pressed together, he sniffled one last time, used his sleeve to wipe his face clean.

“Where are you going?” Dutch asked when Arthur walked away, towards his horse.

“I'm going to kill him.” Arthur said, mounted his horse.

“Don't, he's too dangerous for you.” Dutch's head switched between Arthur and John, clearly torn between having to stay with John and Hosea, or leave with Arthur.

Arthur didn't say another word, spurred his horse forward. They rode throughout the night and day, hours upon hours at a speed too fast for even the best of horses. It was close to midday when she slowed, kept throwing her head up and down. He guided her down a hill, littered with branches, too many of them, she lost her balance and dragged him down with her.

Arthur groaned, got up and stared at her. The damage to her leg immediately evident, it was broken. He closed his eyes, another death on his hands. But he was close, couldn't give up just yet.

He drew his revolver, checked the chamber, filled exactly as it had been at the end of their firefight.

Two bullets.

“Sorry girl.” He muttered, aimed and fired at her head.

One bullet.

Arthur holstered his revolver, so much blood on his hands. East, just a bit further east, he started walking, felt so used.

He sped up his stride.

Betrayed by a man of the cloth.

Arthur walked even faster.

Lead to believe he confided in a man he could trust.

He jogged now.

Never again.

Arthur broke out into a sprint, his destination past the forest he was in.

He ran for two or so hours, maybe longer, fuelled by rage. The last time he ran for so long he had been fuelled by fear, fear of what Dutch was, of what he would do if he caught him. Now he felt nothing but anger, anger at himself. At how reckless he'd been, fear kept him wary, alert. The comfort of being able to share his troubles had left him complaisant, foolish even.

Hosea had been his guide during troubled times. He shouldn't have distrusted the man, it made sense that he and Dutch kept it a secret. Why couldn't he see that sooner, how was it even possible that he had been so easily drawn in by the pretty words of a stranger? How weak did a man have to be to allow for that to happen?

Arthur pushed the against the large door, found himself in an all to familiar stone interior.

“Swanson!” He shouted, revolver in hand. One bullet, that's all he needed. “Swanson, show yourself!”

Arthur stomped along the aisle, repeated the name several times over with increased volume. He aimed his gun at man dressed in black who appeared from an archway.

“T-this is a house of prayer, not violence.” The older man stared at him, wide eyed.

“Swanson, where is he?!” Arthur demanded.

The older man frowned at him.”I-I'm pastor McAllister, please young man, lower the weapon.”

“Swanson!” Arthur shouted. “Where is he?! Red hair, white streaks on the sides, curled moustache. I came here and spoke to him many a times.”

“Orville Swanson? He has been dismissed from his pastoral duties over five years ago. Haven't seen him since.”

“W-what?” Arthur raised his brows.

“He overindulged in alcohol, got caught many times.” The older man glanced around, spoke more quietly. “Why I've even heard rumours that he may have killed a man.”

Arthur lowered his gun, mouth wide open as the colour drained from his face. His legs felt unsteady, non-existent when he dropped to his knees.

“Son are you okay?” The older man walked over, rested a hand on his shoulder, “son?”

“Son...?”

~~~

“Son?”

Arthur lifted his head, glazed over eyes stared at the chained up, hefty man who sat against the wall directly opposite of him.

“Why do you serve them when they keep you in chains more often than not?” The priest or pastor asked.

Arthur's vacant eyes slowly lowered towards the dirty floor, tears welled up in his eyes. He couldn't wipe the snot from his face, not with his wrists shackled above his head.

“Because I promised to,” he whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all my lovely readers:
> 
> For those of you who have read the first chapter before this one was posted: I've changed a few things, some dates and ages, switched a few events around, but nothing major or story changing, just letting you know!
> 
> This is my first attempt at world building as a 3 month old writer, still working through the kinks of plot holes and continuity!
> 
> Thank you for reading and for your support!


	3. Hear no evil, see no evil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: Gore, non-graphic rape.**

Saint-Denis.

Dutch hitched his horse up, in between Micah and Bill's. He had chosen the two to accompany him. Micah because he was his best and strongest. Bill because it was time to see how the man handled himself under his direct leadership.

Dutch stepped forward into the circle of light, cast down on the paved street by a lamp above. He fiddled with his cuff links, used this brief pause to scan the immediate area. The streets were quiet, most shops already closed as they were. The not so kind folk of this industry riddled city knew it wasn't safe outside, not at night. Rumours spread of a serial-killer on the loose, one who marked his victims, punctured their necks with a sharp instrument. Little did they know, for the best, of course. No doubt the work of Strauss and his lot, careless as they were.

Leonard Strauss.

How that little weasel of a man had managed to avoid the hunters long enough to become an elder was a miracle. Strauss was weak, by far the weakest of them all, the man hardly ever fed, never interested in gaining power once he reached the equilibrium he desired. But where he lacked in strength he certainly made up for in cunning. Strauss' business ventures bring in plenty for Cornwall, else the man would never have allowed him a seat in the council.

The real problem with him barely being stronger than a young-blood was that he struggled to keep those he gifted under control. They often went rampant, killed without thought, paid no heed to remain undiscovered. If his contributions weren't so high he surely would have long since been eliminated by Cornwall.

Leviticus Cornwall.

How he longed for the day to finally overtake that man and lay claim to his empire.

Strauss would be easy to control, by far the least of his problems once he'd execute his plan to take that which he desired most.

“What's the mission, boss?” Micah asked as he approached.

Dutch's eyes continued to roam the dark streets, stalked the few passer bys who weren't lucky enough to have an immediate home to enter. There was something in the air, he couldn't quite place it.

“Remain vigilant, we'll head to the saloon for now.” It was the wind, it carried a foul smell, one unusual even for a city as rotten and corrupt such as this one.

“Great, could use a drink or four.” Bill said. Oblivious to the senses of his leader.

Arthur would have caught on to his heightened alert. Boy always read him very well, if only he were more receptive of it all. Such a fine addition he would make, the best even, no doubt possessed the mental prowess to surpass Micah in the blink of an eye. There was still time to convince the boy to join his ranks.

“Gonna pick myself a fine little snack.” Micah sneered, licked his lips.

Micah Bell. A fine soldier, but a bastard like none he'd ever seen before. Colm's cruelty paled in comparison to what this man was capable of. He had seen Micah's cruelty, not to it's full extent, but enough to know how far and deep it stretched within the confines of his mind. For now he needed the man, in more ways than one. The way he tormented Arthur, pushed the boy to lose control over and over, it was perfect. Perfect not in a way that he wanted to see it, it was hard. The temptation to rip Micah's head off after every bout he had with Arthur was always great. Trumped only by the belief that one day Micah would push Arthur far enough to beg him for the gift, to become a predator instead of the prey he now was. That was the true use he saw in one as cruel as Micah Bell, a means to an end.

“You hear something?” Micah said as he pushed his way past the empty crates and barrels along the walls of the narrow alleyway.

“No?” Bill was quick to say from behind Dutch.

 _“Van der Linde.”_

Dutch halted his stride, heard it as well, a voice so faint as if it were carried by a gentle breeze.

_“Found you.”_

_“We must kill.”_

That smell, the horrid stench he struggled to recognize tingled his senses once more. The whispered voices appeared to be all around them, yet all they could see where the walls and shadows of the night.

“The hell is that?” There was an audible crack in Bill's voice as he tightened the grip on his shotgun.

Dutch noticed Micah had the same idea as he. The man's head titled backwards as he scanned the roofs above them, weapons drawn.

_“Van der Linde, we must fulfil our purpose.”_

_“Kill.”_

“Wretches, Bill take cover.” He should have known when the smell of rotting flesh enveloped him. But it had been so long since he had last seen one, never had they been sent for him.

“Wretches? I can't see shi-” Micah cried out when something from above landed hard on his shoulders, dropped him face first to the ground. It raised it's head, bared it's teeth at Dutch. Part of it's shoulder was missing, tattered flesh and bones visible through the hole which was there from what appeared to be a close range buckshot wound.

“Bill, back up!” Dutch ordered. Being trapped in this alleyway was far from ideal. Two more of them jumped down in front of Micah, while the man still struggled to fend off the first as he was pinned under it's weight.

Instincts told him to stay and fight, but the urge to prove himself to be a loyal soldier was stronger. Bill hurried towards the street, found himself face to face with a fourth one, it had jumped down from a streetlamp above, now stood there, crouched and on all fours, fully illuminated. 

“The hell are these things?!” Bill aimed the shotgun towards his opponent with a look of disgust on his face. It's skin was a dull grey and parts of it's lips were missing, exposed the sharp teeth as it snarled. Unlike Dutch and the others, all of it's teeth were unnaturally pointy. It stared at him with bloodshot eyes, almost sunken into their sockets. He could tell this creature was once a man, almost gagged when the wind changed direction.

Only now did Bill release that it's hands were planted on the ground for balance, as it moved side to side, sized him up, he could see that it half hopped because one of it's feet was missing. All that remained of it protruded as a bone which had been sharpened by being dragged over hardened surfaces.

It dashed for Bill, leaped at him, he fired, unloaded the two shots in his barrel into it's guts. The force of the impact knocked it back, sent it rolling on the floor until it came to a halt. He approached it, curious to get a better look, his shot was on point, left a gaping hole where it's stomach would be. It was then that he saw the deep cut in it's neck, surrounded by crimson. Blood, old blood. The thing smelled fowl and rotten, confirmed that it was as it appeared, something which had died a long time ago.

“Step back, it's not dead!” Dutch shouted.

Too late, the creature shot up, grabbed hold of Bill, dug it's teeth into his arm. Bill hollered, the pain fierce and sudden as it tore away at his skin. He struck it, against the side of it's head with the butt of his shotgun, it barely staggered but no longer had a grip on him.

“There's a damned hole in it's gut?!” Bill said, bewildered at the sight before him.

Dutch was unable to help him, couldn't turn his back on the two in front of him.

 _“Not Van der Linde.”_ The creature hissed as it grabbed hold if Bill's collar, flung him away with ease.

Bill groaned as he was smacked against a metal fence-post, the blow was hard, painful.

 _”Kill.”_ One of the two wretches who stood between Dutch and Micah said the word as it inhaled, made it sound long and drawn out. It leaped at Dutch as it's companion followed suit.

Dutch grit his teeth together, managed to wrap his hand around the first ones neck before it pounced on him. The second he was too slow to stop, it latched on to him, it's teeth sunk into his shoulder, tore away at the skin. With his back exposed and a third one behind him, the danger he was in became evident.

Micah had finally gotten the upper hand on the one which pounced him, quick to react he snapped it's neck. It cared not, used one hand to snap it back into place with a sickening crack.

“The hell do you kill these things?” Micah asked.

“De-” Dutch cried out when the one who had been delayed by Bill jumped on his back, buried it's teeth into his neck. “De- destroy the b-brain.” He gurgled as blood oozed from his mouth.

Micah, alarmed by Dutch's outcry dragged the one he fought over to the wall, plunged his knife into it's hand with all the strength he could muster. It worked, the knife now firmly lodged into the wall behind it, kept it pinned. It screeched at him, clawed at it's own hand as it desperately tried to free itself. 

“Stay.” Micah said before he rushed over and dragged the one which had it's teeth embedded in Dutch's shoulder off him. The knowledge that if Dutch died, he would die was a great motivator to come to his creators aid.

“Dutch!” Bill used his shotgun to strangle the one on Dutch's back, he tried his damnedest to drag it off of him, but lacked the strength to do so.

“Sh-shoot!” Dutch ordered, thanks to Micah he now had a free hand, was able to wrap both around the neck of the one he held at bay and turned it towards Bill who unloaded a shell of buckshot at it's head.

Micah dragged the one he grabbed backwards and forced it to the ground, placed his foot on it's chest as it desperately clawed at his legs. He reached for an empty bucket, slammed it against the creature's head. Once, twice, it's skull cracked, again and again until it's head turned into mush.

The one which had been pinned against the wall pulled against it's own hand, it's ligaments tore and bones snapped as it dragged itself free, the knife still embedded in the wall. It grabbed hold of Micah, repeatedly slammed his head against the wall until small cracks appeared on the bricks. 

Dutch, managed to dislodge the one from his neck, ensured he had a firm grip on it and faced the wall. He smashed it's head against it, over and over until a huge splatter of blood coloured the wall dark red.

Micah shook his head, dazed from the assault he had just suffered. He was forced to keep one eye shut as blood oozed out of the gash on his forehead. His attacker had left, headed for it's true target. He dashed towards the wretch, grabbed it from behind before it reached Dutch. Micah reached for his knife, pulled it out of the wall then plunged it into the creatures skull which only seemed to enrage it further. It pried Micah's arms off it's neck, turned and attempted to sink it's teeth into his face. Micah struggled to keep it at bay, the wretch almost as strong as he was.

“Son-of-a!” Bill exclaimed as the one he shot got back up. Half of it's head was missing, flesh and brain matter clearly visible as it groaned and turned it's one remaining eye towards Dutch. 

_“Vaaaan der Li-”_ It's body stopped moving when Bill's next shot blew what remained of it's head clean off.

“N-need a hand here!” Micah knew he was close to losing this battle, it had him pinned against the wall, left him unable to withdraw his head further away from it's sharp teeth. He heard stories of these things, how they would bite through the necks of their victims. Decapitation was an injury he couldn't recover from.

Dutch grabbed it from behind, squeezed and tore at it's neck until the head popped off it's shoulders.

 _“Kiiiiill.”_ It's dismembered head still spoke.

“Who... who sent y-you.” Dutch struggled to get the words out, had to cover the gaping wound on his neck with his bandanna as he kept pressure on it.

 _”More will come.”_ It replied.

Blood spilled from Dutch's mouth as he coughed and sputtered. He deemed the interrogation to be futile, lowered the head to the ground then stomped on it until bone shards and brain matter decorated his boot. He staggered backwards, leaned against a barrel and covered the deep gash on his shoulder with his other hand as blood continued to ooze out.

“They dead?!” Bill had a steady grip on his shotgun, frantically aimed it around as he continued to turn and searched for other targets.

“Shit, think so.” Micah, out of breath, sat down on a nearby crate. He spotted a discarded rag, used it to clean his hands.

All three men turned around after an audible gasp came from the other end of the alley. A couple stood there, a young lady dressed in red, wealthy, if one judged by her garments. Her male companion equally well dressed. 

“Sophia, no!” The male who accompanied her said as he attempted to drag his friend along.

“N-need to h-heal.” Dutch panted, his eyes on Micah.

Micah nodded, moved too fast for the couple. They flinched when he stood behind them, arms wrapped around their shoulders.

“Hello cattle.” Micah sneered, shoved the girl into the alleyway as she shrieked. The man he dragged a few steps, annoyed by his resistance Micah smacked his head against the wall, hard enough to leave the poor bastard stunned. He lifted him by the back of his vest, dropped the limp body at Dutch's feet. Micah then hurried over to clamp the loud girl's mouth shut as she continued to struggle.

“Such a pretty little thing, I'll save you for later.” Micah whispered into her ear, to which she responded with attempts to dig her elbows into his sides.

“Micah, p-pile the b-bodies up. B-Bill, g-get the horses.” Dutch, still exhausted and bleeding profusely got to his feet, dragged the man up with him. 

“Ssshh ssh.” Micah shushed the girl, removed her headscarf and gently propped some of it into her mouth. “Spit that out and I'll hurt you badly, got it?” Micah whispered, smirked as she nodded. He sat her down against the wall, in between two large barrels and used the dirty rag to bind her hands in front of her.

Dutch took a deep breath, tilted his head backward. Even the change was a struggle, weary as he was. Dutch closed his eyes, felt a small surge of energy from inside, enough for his body to change and give him the tools needed to feed. He dug his teeth into the man's neck, held him as still as possible. The more he drank, the more invigorated he felt. Dutch slurped and gulped for every drop of blood the man had to give, until his struggles weakened further and finally his body went limp.

Dutch let out a deep sigh, dropped the corpse he held on to, it startled the girl, her whimpers muffled as she stared at her dead companion.

“Got 'em piled up, boss.” Micah said as he tossed a rotted jaw on top of the pile.

“Burn it.” Dutch pulled a small flask out of his vest and tossed it to Micah, a waste of good bourbon, but a necessity. He used his foot to push the meal he just had over towards the pile which reeked of rot and death.

Micah emptied the flask over the stack of corpses, tossed a lit match on top of it and handed the empty container back to Dutch. He then hurried over to the girl who became more frantic at the sight of her companions body in flames.

“Horses are here.” Bill appeared around the corner.

The men hurried to mount up. Micah had used a large burlap sack from his horses tack to conceal his female prisoner as they rode towards the outer edge of the city. 

“S-so, what the hell were those things?” Bill asked, unnerved by the silence between them.

Dutch brought his horse to a stop in what to him seemed like a more deserted area. He preferred to not have to shout over clip-clopping of their horses' hooves on the paved road.

“Wretches, we call them.” Dutch said as he stretched his arm, rubbed a hand over the deep gash which no longer bled.

“They're the _things_ that spawn when young-bloods attempt to pass the gift to a mortal.” Micah added.

“Correct. A forbidden practice, for obvious reasons.” Dutch pulled his collar back, inspected the wound which had started to heal ever so slowly. He needed more nourishment.

“Them things weren't... how come they so hard to kill?” Bill asked.

“Their bodies are frail, a result of decomposing for days until the change occurs. But they feel no pain as their minds possess only the most basic functions.” Dutch looked around as he spoke, his eyes scanned every corner, every alley in sight. 

“When an elder grants the gift, the change is almost immediate. Young bloods don't possess such power, it can take days when they do so, or not occur at all.” Dutch explained.

“They wanted you.” Micah had gotten off his horse, used this time to further secure his prisoner to the saddle.

“Yes. Young-bloods lack the ability to enthral. A wretch can be commanded to do one thing and one alone, after that they become mindless creatures, enthralled to no one. Pushed further only by a desire to nourish itself and continue it's pitiful existence.” Dutch couldn't take his mind off Arthur, how he longed for a taste of his blood. The urge much stronger now that his body required it to heal.

“So there's a young-blood out to kill you. One of Colm's men?” Micah asked.

“No. Colm may be a conniving bastard but he wouldn't have the audacity to cross Cornwall with such a severe infraction on our laws.” Dutch frowned. Who would dare?

“Think there will be more of them? Thought they almost had us then.” Bill glanced around nervously.

“Telling ya boss, you need to ignore Morgan wishes and feed more. It's costing you in strength.” Micah said, noticed how much Dutch struggled with what should have been a breeze to an elder of his age.

“Your input is noted, Mr. Bell.” Dutch narrowed his eyes at Micah. The man was right, his desire to please Arthur, to in part stay true to a promise he made to that boy and Hosea almost cost him his life. Drinking less, not being at his full power would no longer be acceptable if he was under attack. By some pathetic young-blood of all things; unless their creator had commanded them to do so. Which one of them had the audacity to do such a thing? It reeked of desperation, of a power struggle which could interfere with his own.

“What do we do now?” Bill asked.

More men, more power, more eyes in the streets. That's what he needed.

“I'll send a letter, inform the council of this unfortunate event.” Dutch stared at Bill, noticed the tear in his sleeve, the blood which surrounded it. The man had performed well, proved his loyalty. It was no easy feet to stand ones ground against those things as a young-blood, never mind as a mortal.

“Mr. Williamson, I want you to have quick gander and select someone.” Dutch motioned towards the distant streets which still contained a small amount of activity.

“Select someone?” Bill frowned.

“A sacrifice.” Dutch nodded at him.

Bill's eyes widened with a mixture of surprise and excitement, he turned his horse towards the direction Dutch had indicated, took his time to assess the few people he saw.

“Uh... that one, there, outside the doctors office.” He pointed towards a young man in overalls who seemed to have just exited the place, fiddled with a key in his hand.

“'Course it's a young feller.” Micah snorted.

“Mr. Bell, instead of standing there idle and filled with judgment, make yourself useful, fetch the boy for us.” Dutch ordered.

Micah huffed, left his horse with them and headed off.

“You did well Bill, paid no heed to the danger you were in, especially as a mortal. You gave it your all to protect me. Such loyalty comes with a reward.”

“T-thank you Dutch. Uh, boss, won't let you down, I promise.” Bill struggled to contain his excitement.

As soon as Micah returned with his catch, the men made their way back to camp with plenty of time to spare before sunrise.

~~~

_Arthur's hand turned the doorknob, pushed the door open. The room he entered was lavish, extravagant to the highest degree. The windows covered by red drapes, gave the room a reddish hue as they blocked most of the sun's rays. There was a woman on the bed, her body sprawled out across the silky red sheets._

_The closer he walked, the more spots of white he could see on the linen, the sheets weren't supposed to be red, not originally, nor was her dress. She stared at him, terror stark in her eyes. Her mouth opened and closed repeatedly, but he heard no sound. He was drawn to her, drawn to the smell of blood, to her helpless form. Her fear a catalyst for his attraction._

_Arthur's head turned to his right, stared at his reflection in the mirror. His canines were sharper than knives. His reflection grinned at him, there was malice in it's eyes, the eyes which shone a bright orange. But there was a change, a shift in what he saw when he stared at his own reflection. It moved while he stood frozen, balled up fists banged against the inside of mirror. His reflection screamed at him, told him to run before it was too late._

_The eyes of the reflection widened, not from fear but with pain as a creature crawled out of his mouth. It's shriek so high pitched that it shattered the glass in front of it._

_“We want you, Arthur Morgan.” Blood oozed out of it's grotesque mouth, it's teeth sharp and thin, tongue shaped like a serpents._

_Why couldn't he move?_

_The creature clawed and slithered until it sprung forth from the vessel which held it, his own reflection. It then leaped at him._

_His mouth agape, mortified by what he saw was an invitation for it's slender fingers to claw at the edges of his mouth._

_Still, he remained frozen._

_“You belong to us.” It's body pulled back, braced itself to crawl inside of him._

_He screamed._

~~~

“No!” Arthur shouted, his feet shifted over the ground as he attempted to crawl backwards, already pressed hard against the wall. His eyes darted around the small, dimly lit room.

“What's with all the ruckus?” Micah descended the steps, dragged some scrawny younger man in overalls by his hair.

Arthur straightened himself, groaned at the pain in his shackled wrists. He shouldn't have fallen asleep, but that's what four rapidly drained glasses of bourbon would do to anyone.

“Had another of those fancy dreams huh? Shame I missed your screams.” Micah sneered. He tossed his prisoner down the rest of the stairs, headed back up himself. The younger man stumbled, unable to catch himself with hands bound behind his back. He landed on the floor with a groan of pain, which was muffled behind the cloth in his mouth.

Arthur frowned at the boy who appeared to have barely reached the age of twenty. Someone like him wasn't the type preferred by either John or Dutch, especially not Micah.

Micah's boots re-appeared, this time he held on to a young lady, her red dress tattered and dirty, hands bound in front. She resisted, fought hard, attempted to hit him as best as she could, her curses were muffled but understandable. What was once an unblemished face now showed clear signs where her tears had been shed and fallen down.

She was a more suited candidate for Micah's deprived mind.

“Lot's more livestock for you to feed.” Micah grinned at him.

The young man seemed stunned by his impact with the ground, didn't resist as Micah untied him and chained him to the wall. The pastor sat next to the boy kept his head lowered, knew it would be wise to not provoke a monster like Micah. The woman on the other hand fought hard, even harder when the reality of the grim situation she was in had been revealed to her.

“Stop squirming, wench.” Micah snarled at her. He chained her up on the same side as Arthur, next to the near lifeless girl who had suffered down here for far too long.

“Don't think I've forgotten about you, runt. Haven't decided how I'll repay you for shooting me. How's it feel? Knowing there's absolutely nothing you can do to me.” Micah smirked, his arms spread out as he backed up the steps.

“Ruined your shirt, that's good enough for me.” Arthur mumbled.

Micah stopped, his body already halfway outside the cellar. He crouched on the stairs, glared at Arthur.

He knew he should have kept his mouth shut.

“Still making jokes huh?” Micah closed the metal door above him, walked back down.

It proved difficult to not be afraid, impossible even. Knowing full well what Micah was and what he could do.

Micah crouched down in front of him, stroked his handlebar moustache while he pensively stared at Arthur.

“Just beat me, get it over with.” Arthur said with the highest amount of courage he could muster.

“Nah, you don't punish the great Arthur Morgan with a beating. Not when there's far worse things that could be done.” Micah stared to Arthur's right with a lopsided grin on his face.

“Don' be a coward, your beef is with me.” Arthur swallowed.

“Exactly.” Micah's fingers undid the top-most buttons on her dress. The girl made a weak noise, hardly a whimper. With her face so pale, it was a miracle she still breathed.

“ _Micah._ ” Arthur's eyes narrowed at him. “She's dyin' you sick piece of shit.”

“Oh I'm sure she's got enough left in her to make some more noise. Just for you.” Micah winked at him, undid her shackles and dragged her over to the chair. He moved the lantern, draped her body over it, face down. With no effort at all he tore the bottom of her dress to pieces.

“Micah! You know that ain't allowed. He'll have your head for this.” His chains rattled as he attempted to push forward. If only he were strong enough.

“Shouldn't have shot me, Morgan. I get to chose the punishment.” Micah started to undo his belt.

Arthur turned his head to the staircase. “Du- mmhhpf!”

Micah was so fast do be on top of him, hadn't even heard him move. Bastard clamped his mouth and nose shut.

“Ssshhh. Dutch won't mind once it's done. But he'll sure as hell stop it beforehand. So keep quiet won't you?” Micah said.

Arthur wriggled his head around so much so that he was able to pull away enough to bite Micah in his hand.

“Argh! Son-of-a-” Micah cursed.

He was about to call for Dutch again when Micah slammed the back of his head against the wall, hard enough to make him see stars dance in front of him. Before he could recover from the impact there was large amount of the girl's torn up dress being packed into his mouth, more was tied around his head to ensure it stayed in there.

“If anyone else makes even a single loud noise I'll cut your tongues out.” Micah growled as he made eye contact with the other three prisoners.

“Uuhhmpff!” Arthur tried to call Dutch's name again, his call-out so muffled, it was unlikely even Dutch would hear him past a gag, the metal door and what was an entire floor of the old plantation house.

The girl sobbed pathetically when Micah's body made it clear to her what was about to happen. Her attempt to fight him practically non-existent as she lacked strength to even lift her arms.

“Go ahead Morgan, close your eyes like you want to, never been good at facing the consequences of your actions, were you?” Micah sneered at him.

Arthur's chest heaved, he pulled against his restraints, pulled hard enough for his wrists to chafe and bleed. Micah was right, he couldn't watch the bastard as he was about to defile her body one last time before he'd end her suffering.

“Mrrrrgg!!” Arthur's anger filled scream remained muffled. This wasn't the first time he wished to have the strength which Dutch possessed, or even Micah, and he knew it wouldn't be the last either. Anything to break free from these chains and rip that bastards head clean off his shoulders.

“Oh man, she ain't as bad as I thought she'd be.” Arthur heard Micah say, he closed his eyes as soon as the man got started. If only he could do the same with his ears, the noises he heard almost made him gag.

“This is your punishment, runt. Open your eyes and watch or I'll take the other whore right after this one.” Micah threatened.

Arthur shook his head, he couldn't bring himself to do it. The horrible stench of blood and death down here, the whimpering noises from the poor woman who's body was being defiled. It was the fuel of nightmares, an image he couldn't have in his head for as long as he still lived. There had been too many of them already.

“You'd rather pretend this isn't happening and let me have the other one? Who would've guessed.” Micah teased.

“M-mister... please d-don't. Y-you must open your eyes, p-lease.” The girl to Arthur's right whispered.

Arthur shook his head again, squeezed his eyes shut even harder.

“Well shit, so much for them morals of yours, huh Morgan?” Micah snickered, grunted as soon as the sounds of flesh which slapped against flesh, stopped.

“Well that's that. You tasted real nice, in more ways than one.” Micah pulled his pants up.

Arthur flinched when he heard a godawful sound of a neck being snapped, followed by a soft thud.

“Our Father in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be-” The pastor stopped when Micah backhanded him.

“Even God fears this place, holy man. Now shut up, ruining my mood here.” Micah said, then clasped his hands together. “Next!”

“N-no... no please!” The girl screamed when Micah grabbed her, received a hard slap to the face for her troubles. She sobbed but quieted down while Micah dragged her over to the same chair.

“One more chance Morgan. Open your eyes and watch me take her, or I'll be doing it more than once.” Micah threatened.

Arthur hesitated; he wished he could, knew he should. But he still wanted to sleep at night, had enough nightmares as is.

He shook his head.

“Just open your eyes you coward!” The newly imprisoned younger man said.

“Hear that Morgan? Boy has known you for a whole ten minutes and already sees you for what you are.” Micah snickered.

Arthur kept his eyes squeezed shut, pressed his arms against his ears, he hoped it would block out the sound of Micah grunts and the girls sorry sobs. He wasn't going to open his damned eyes, he'd have to live with this imagine for years to come, they'd be dead in a few days at best.

To hell with them.

To hell with Micah.

He wasn't going to look.

“Argh, yeah, that was good.” Micah panted. “Now a for a little post-fun snack.”

The pressure of his arms wasn't enough to block out the sound of her terrified scream when Micah no doubt showed her his true face. The boy got quite verbal as well, begged for a deity who couldn't care less for his doomed soul. Thankfully her screams died down quickly, her energy being drained faster than her blood as Micah got his fill.

“Shit, forgive me miss, don't have another round in me.” Micah sincerely said to the girl who sobbed at his feet. He dragged her over to the wall, chained her up next to Arthur.

Arthur's groan was muffled when a hand roughly grabbed hold of his jaw, another moved his arm away from his ear.

“I really liked that shirt.” Micah whispered to him.

Then, for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, Arthur's eyes flew open after he received a far too strong punch in his guts.

“Ooommpf!” It completely knocked the wind out of him.

“Don't have too much fun without me.” Micah said on his way out.

Arthur's nostrils flared with every breath he took. Shit that hurt, hardly even Micah's full strength.

“W-what was that? H-his face, h-he bit into her neck, k-killed that poor woman.” The young man turned his head to the pastor next to him.

That poor woman. Arthur glanced over to the lifeless body on his left, then closed his eyes again.

Micah. There was no need to make her suffer more before releasing her from this hell.

“The devil sought a vessel to walk this earth and that man is it.” The pastor nodded towards the stairs.

Micah was not possessed by no devil, bastard was born corrupted and evil. All Dutch's gift had done was to grant him the physical strength to act upon all the wrongs in that twisted mind of his.

“W-why didn't he help them? You could have helped her!”

Arthur knew the boy addressed him, he shook his head, kept his eyes closed, couldn't reply anyway. Not that he owed him anything. The boy wouldn't understand, not yet anyway. Perhaps in time he too would see enough horrors down here to wish he would just go blind and deaf. There were already so many of them in his nightmares. Young and old alike, all innocent, all doomed to suffered until the end. They would whimper and sob through their pain, like the woman next to him. For days and days until they had nothing left to give.

You'll see boy. You'll see and understand.

In a way he felt like they had and would. Only he hadn't been drained for days, for him it had been years. Agonizing years during which his body was drained of the blood inside and his heart of all pity. Almost nothing remained, not even the smallest shred of sympathy he could offer the endless amount victims left behind by these demons.

“ _All_ you had to do was open your eyes.” The boy said with contempt.

Contempt.

Of that he had plenty, most of it towards Micah for existing. Then Dutch for having created a monster within a monster. Dutch ignored his pleas to not give such power to a man who craved all of it. Who would use it not for good nor evil, but for his sick self. Worst of all, Dutch rarely disapproved of his despicable actions, hardly ever reprimanded the bastard.

A good soldier. The old Dutch never would have justified that as a reason to keep someone like Micah around.

Why Dutch?

“You're no better than him!” The boy spat to a man who could not speak.

“Save your breath not for judgment but for repentance. So that the Lord may embrace you at the heavenly gates.” The pastor said.

Arthur snorted, seemed like the pastor understood his own fate, that this fowl pit in the ground was to be his final destination.

“You would defend his actions?” The boy on the other hand, had no such realization.

All in due time. These poor souls.

~~~

Time seized to exist in this stench ridden hole. Only the sobs and clanging of the chains which held them were a constant.

He couldn't tell if it had been hours or a day when the door next opened. The girl next to him tensed up when the steps creaked, her sobs a clear indication of fear towards whatever horrors were to befall her.

“Shit.” John exclaimed as he descended, his eyes on the sprawled out body.

“M-mister, you gotta help us!” The boy sounded hopeful, spurred on by the sight of a new face, a possible savior.

“You okay?” John stood before Arthur, crouched down to be at eye level.

Arthur lifted his chin, allowed their eyes to meet for a second, he then lowered his head again and sighed.

“P-please, you must hurry before he comes back.” The boy pulled against his chains.

John glanced over his shoulder, “shut up.”

“I'll clean this up after dinner. Dutch said you can go.” John leaned in to untie the gag first.

Clean up after dinner.

Arthur swallowed past the lump in his throat. This was John, the young man he shared a tent with for years. The same John he would sneak out of camp with to steal a few coins from unsuspecting rich men so they could waste it away on a night of debauchery. The boy who always saved a few dollars to give to those who had to beg on the streets.

That boy was gone. Swept away by grief over the loss of someone they both happily referred to as their teacher, their guide and their father, only not by blood.

All because of his stupidity, his failure to see the evil of men, how they would manipulate and bend people to serve their own needs. Men who didn't possess the ability to change their appearance, men who were born evil, like Micah.

He groaned when his arms flopped to the ground after John had unlocked the shackles.

Arthur lifted his chin again, only this time his eyes were filled with tears. He missed that compassionate boy who shared a tent with him.

“Arthur?” John stared at him not with sympathy, but confusion.

“Nothing, I'm fine.” Arthur used his sleeve to wipe away the mess on his face, rubbed his wrists on his way up the steps. John did not follow, after all, it was _dinner_ time for him.

“Forgot to ask if you like my new shirt.”

Arthur stopped, side-glanced at Micah, then moved on towards the front door. Bastard snickered behind him, that's how it was. His silence viewed as a reward, a sign of submission which brought the bastard great pleasure. If he retorted, opened his mouth to speak his mind, he would be forced into said submission through whatever punishment Micah's mind devised. 

Micah always won, no matter what.

Arthur left the building in a hurry, the morning sun a welcome relief, insurance that Micah couldn't follow him. Kept walking until he no longer felt it's heavy presence behind him, he had reached the horses, hastily found his own.

“Hey girl.” He murmured, rested his forehead against her neck. Finally a creature not capable of evil, someone happy to see him for reasons other than hurting him. He took the few steps needed to where his saddle hung, fished out a pack of smokes and lit one. He could leave, saddle her up and go. Lenny stood guard, that boy was alert, too eager for Dutch's approval. Kid would likely call him out before he could mount her.

Arthur's eyes fell on Dutch's vacant balcony. He wasn't allowed to leave, not alone, not without a mark, a sign of immunity. One he continued to refuse.

“Arthur.” Miss Tilly walked up to him, a smile on her pretty little face, followed closely by Mary-Beth.

“Come with us, your bath is ready.” Mary-Beth reached out for his hand, took it in her own.

“Don't want no bath.” He didn't want to go back inside, back into the darkness.

“We have to get you cleaned.” Tilly took hold of Arthur's other hand, gently pulled on it.

Dutch.

He could tell they had been instructed to bathe him. There was something about their happy, unburdened appearance whenever Dutch's influence was the strongest. It made them mindless, compelled to fulfill his wishes down to the tiniest detail. They wouldn't relent, couldn't even.

“Come.” Tilly's smile widened.

Arthur sighed, allowed them to guide him back into the devil's lair. It's windows boarded up to prevent even a single ray of sun from entering, only Dutch's room was free of such constraints. For he was the only one among them old and strong enough to resist the otherwise deadly impact it had on their undead flesh.

Cursed to walk the night and shun the day. Dutch had said in one of his many verses. He never asked for more details, never had been interested. Young-bloods would burn in hellfire under the sun, elders had spent centuries to build up a resistance, that was all he knew.

The two girls lead him to the bathing room, adorned with dozens of candles which stood on shelves. A large porcelain tub stood in the centre, various instruments for cleaning on a small table at it's side. His eyes fell on the plate of food, the empty glass and not so empty bottle of bourbon next to it.

Dutch.

Another sigh escaped from Arthur's lips. Of course he hadn't commanded them to be attentive because it was good for him. They were to clean him up and get him fed so he could be prepared to give Dutch what the man needed.

He shook his head, closed his eyes as the girls slowly undressed him. Any other man or woman would have seen this as a luxury, for him it was nothing more than a ritual. He stepped out of his boots and pants, lowered himself into the tub without further protest.

The water was nice, brought to the ideal temperature to accommodate his sore muscles. 

“Here you are, Arthur.” Mary-Beth offered him a filled glass of bourbon.

He accepted it, the air now cold against his previously submerged arm. Downed the glass in one go, hoped it's strong contents would provide a temporary escape from reality, a way to numb his senses.

“Have some of this, Arthur.” Tilly stood on the opposite side, held out a plate filled with expensive goods.

He stuffed some cheese and dried meat into his mouth, forced out a grateful smile. Not that it mattered to them, they would happily do this regardless of his attitude. It unnerved him at times, how mindless they had become, robbed of any and all free thoughts they once possessed. He understood why Hosea opposed this so heavily. It wasn't life, it wasn't living, it was just a different kind of nightmare. One he failed to persuade Dutch to discontinue.

When would he ever succeed in doing anything Hosea asked of him? He possessed none of the man's skills, nor willpower. He also found himself to be guilty of putting less effort into his promise. As the weeks went by he had grown accustomed to this new Dutch, this version of the man less interested in righteousness, replaced by a more self-serving desire.

His glass was refilled, this time he emptied it at a more reasonable pace, allowed himself to sink deeper into the comforts of this hot bath. He closed his eyes, attempted to will his mind to find some peace. Grateful that the girls hadn't pressured him to hurry.

Unfortunately all good things had to come to an end.

His hand was emptied, his body moved to a more upright position. The girls then readied their sponges, worked in perfect unison to scrub every inch of his skin.

Arthur leaned forward, his back exposed to be cleaned by Tilly while Mary-Beth massaged his scalp with her fingers.

It wasn't all bad.

None of the other mortals were privy to these luxuries. The food, the baths, even a tent outside. He had been offered a room inside, but refused. The times he slept outside were the only times he truly felt safe from Micah's terror. Like them he had grown accustomed to being awake at night and asleep during the day.

Arthur yawned when the thought of sleep crossed his mind. Not that he really wanted to, the nightmares came more often as of late. He missed that herbal remedy of Hosea's, thing would put him out like a light, always left him well rested after a dreamless sleep.

“One last drink, then we can get you dried up and dressed.” Mary-Beth spoke softly, held the glass out to him.

Arthur glanced up at her, his head already lighter from the drinks he had. He hastily emptied it, the girls just stood there, waited for him, their instructions almost completed. The emptied glass was returned to the table, his hands now on the edge of the tub as he pushed himself up and out.

The women dried him off, there used to be a time when he felt shame towards his nudity, that time had long since come and gone. A pair of pants were held out for him to step in, he did. Next he held his arms out so they could pull a clean shirt on, they even buttoned it up for him. 

Such luxuries, a shroud to cover the truth behind the horrors which took place within the confines of these walls.

“There you are Mr. Morgan, looking mighty fine.” Mary-Beth smiled at him.

He returned her smile, weak and disingenuous. The memory of who she once was brought a sadness to him. A dreamer, an artist like he, many a times had he seen her draw in a journal akin to his own. That all stopped when she was enthralled by Dutch, forced to do his bidding and nothing else. Poor girl, a soul once free now bound to the destiny of an unholy being.

Arthur sighed, his socks and boots he put on by himself, he'd thank the girls, but what purpose would that serve? They'd do it regardless, smile through it no matter how polite or nasty he was.

Pointless.

He made his way to the stairs, stopped at the bottom of them and turned his head to the right. Stared at the paint chipped door. The door to Micah's room, no doubt the bastard would be fast asleep inside. If only he had the strength, the right tools to go in there and end his existence.

He really wanted to.

Really should.

It wouldn't be easy, required a lot of careful planning to remain undiscovered. Arthur shook his head, it wouldn't be possible, not for one as stupid and weak as he was. He ascended the stairs on knocked on Dutch's door, entered as soon as permission to do so came from inside.

“My boy, I see the girls have serviced you well.” Dutch said as he lit a few candles on the coffee table.

“You mean your slaves.” Arthur closed the door behind him. The candles turned the rooms atmosphere almost romantic, with it's heavy drapes shut their light casted a dim glow arround the room. On the same table was a silver plate stacked with dried foods, a pitcher filled with water and a bottle of what he assumed was whiskey, not bourbon.

“Sit.” Dutch held his arms out towards the couch.

“Something wrong?” Arthur frowned, Dutch seemed more tired than he would around this time.

“Nothing that concerns you.” 

Arthur snorted. Of course he wasn't privy to their business. Not since Micah took over his place as Dutch's second.

“Your wrists are chafed.” Dutch lifted Arthur's arm, pushed his sleeve further back.

“They is? Strange, you'd think being chained up in a stinking hole would come with it's own set of luxuries.” Arthur scoffed.

“Stop acting out of place and you won't ever be down there.” Dutch let go of him, waited for him to be seated.

“I'll never not be out of place Dutch, especially with Micah around.”

“We are _not_ getting into this again.” Dutch snapped.

“Colour me surprised.” Arthur sighed.

“ _Arthur._ ”

“Dutch, 'm tired, sore from sitting on the floor for a whole damned day, just get this over with.” For a moment he considered to tell Dutch about what Micah had just done. But the man would likely dismiss it as a tale or shush him.

“Relax my boy, lean back.” Dutch rested his hands on Arthur's shoulders, forced him to lean back against the couch. “The bath was intended to help with your sore muscles.”

“Hm.” Arthur closed his eyes when Dutch's fingers kneaded his shoulders, felt nice. “Helped a 'lil,” he mumbled.

“Had your drinks?” Dutch spoke more softly.

“Hm hm.” Arthur tilted his head backwards, glanced up at Dutch. “Wish I were being spoiled for different reasons.” He sighed.

“Ssssh, none of that now. Close your eyes.” Dutch said as he brought his usual black cloth to Arthur's eyes.

Arthur let out a deep sigh, hoped it would relieve some stress of his day, his life. Dutch disliked it when he was stressed, said it gave his blood a bitter lemony taste. It all sounded ridiculous to him, not that he thought mattered, to anyone.

He sat up straight as Dutch blindfolded him. To this day he wasn't sure if Dutch did it because he couldn't stand the contempt in his eyes as his mentors face revealed the demon inside. Or if it was Dutch who couldn't bear to see his eyes on him as he fed. Perhaps it reminded him too much of the promise he once made to Hosea. 

The knot was tied, loosely, gently, cast him in total darkness.

“Relax for me.” Dutch whispered to him, suddenly at his right. Fast, silent and deadly. 

Arthur held his right arm out, left it to Dutch to roll his sleeve up. Some liquid touched his skin, alcohol no doubt. Oh Dutch, so caring and mindful, all part of the charade to convince himself that Hosea would somehow understand.

“Going to sting a bit.” Dutch quietly said, held the tip of his knife against Arthur's forearm.

Arthur nodded, tensed up and hissed as Dutch made a small cut in his arm. He was grateful that the man had switched from his teeth to a blade, it hurt less, healed faster.

Now came the part he disliked the most, the sounds they made as they sucked and moaned. Every swallow loudly gulped as the lifeblood of one, entered another. The last sounds their victims would hear before they succumbed to unconsciousness, or in most cases, death. 

“Still so tense.” Dutch drawled.

Arthur gasped, arched his back when Dutch slipped a hand under his shirt, traced it upward across his chest until it found what it wanted. A small moan escaped from his lips when Dutch teased and tweaked his nipple. 

“That's it, just enjoy.” Dutch cooed.

Enjoy. Such niceties, words wrapped in a sheet of gold to disguise their true intent. It mattered not, Dutch always got what he wanted, knew exactly how to bend both his body and mind to the man's will. Just the right amount of praise or touches. Some lenience towards his requests here and there, but never too much. All part of Dutch's master plan to keep him close and in line.

Arthur knew, had known for a long time how Dutch functioned. But he would never fully relent, never give the man the one thing he wanted the most. Death appealed to him more than the idea of ever being what Dutch and the others were, and the man was fully aware of that.

“Oh.” He mouthed when Dutch's hand went to his lower region. Normally he'd be flattered, overjoyed to give in to his physical desires. But not with Dutch, only because he knew that he wasn't the only one privy to this sort of special attention. This was Dutch's way with others he had previously fed on. Some sweet talk, a few drinks, then he would pleasure their bodies as he slowly drained them.

The man had done this to him countless of times, enough to have mapped every inch of his body to perfection. A well timed tug, a gentle squeeze, the tip of his thumb which pressed down on exactly the right spot, it was all done so meticulously to get him exited.

It worked, as it always had.

“F-feels good.” Arthur breathed.

“Sshh, don't talk.” Dutch replied.

Right. Don't look, don't talk, don't be Arthur while I feed on you. How foolish of him to forget that he wasn't supposed to be himself during all of this. Yet another reminder of how much he missed Hosea. Life was full of those as of late, reminders of the man he secretly called father and missed. A man he indirectly murdered.

“You're not responding very well.” Dutch chided. 

Arthur huffed at him. Here he was, blindfolded, half stripped in the room of a blood sucking fiend who just reprimanded him for not getting hard fast enough. Difficult to fathom.

“Maybe if you hadn't sucked out so much already I'd have some left to get it up with.” Arthur complained.

“Still speaking.” Dutch snarled.

“Just finish up, ain't in no mood today for your games.” He moved Dutch's hand away from his groin, already felt a bit light headed.

“As you wish my liege.” Dutch scoffed.

Arthur shook his head, hissed when Dutch drained him with more tenacity. His reflex was to pull the arm away, but Dutch had a firm grip on it.

“Bit more, so delicious.” Dutch mumbled.

Dutch's tongue scraped over his arm, it stung a bit, but meant this crap was almost over.

“Brace yourself.” Dutch said.

Arthur knew what came next, tensed up at Dutch's warning. The liquid stung as badly as a thousand needles being plunged into him. He grit his teeth together, did his best to not cry like an infant.

Dutch set the bottle of whiskey down on the table, started to wrap a strip of black cloth around Arthur's arm.

Arthur lowered his head and sighed. Every other day he had to sit through this shit, just so Dutch wouldn't prey as much on those who didn't deserve it. He felt so drained, of blood, of the will to live, of everything. The blindfold was removed, he struggled to keep his eyes open further than halfway.

“Eat something.” Dutch placed a plate of food in Arthur's lap.

He stared at it, lacked the energy to move his hand to it and his mouth. Sleep was all he wanted, but Dutch wouldn't let him, not until he consumed at least something to restore his blood levels.

“Don't know for how long I can still do this Arthur.” Dutch brought a piece of steak to Arthur's lips.

“Hm?” The words hadn't sunk in, his mind to occupied with being fed like a child, too tired to object he parted his lips, chewed on the red meat.

“Afraid I have to build my strength again, this arrangement of us... it leaves me weak and vulnerable. I need to be strong so I can fight off any would be assassins, Arthur.” Dutch spoke with a soft voice.

“'tackers?” He slurred.

“You wouldn't want me to be defenceless, would you my boy?” Dutch pushed Arthur's chin up.

“'Course not.” What had the man implied? That he would return to his old ways of draining multiple victims a day? Why the sudden change?

“Good, I'm glad you understand. Your approval means a lot to me, I think you know that.” Dutch cooed.

Arthur frowned, would reply if Dutch hadn't stuffed another piece of food in his mouth. Probably for the best. Words became difficult to form, the bed in his line of sight a temptation which grew stronger with every second that passed.

Dutch pushed Arthur to eat a bit more meat and some beans, fed him a good amount of water as well. 

“Hmf.” Arthur mumbled, attempted to grunt in protest as Dutch lifted him with ease. He was carried to the bed, carefully laid down like a maiden. How humiliating for a man of his size.

“Get some rest my sweet boy. Tomorrow evening we celebrate Bill's ascension.” Dutch carded a hand through Arthur's hair.

The words barely registered. Bill being gifted? Thought the man weren't loyal enough.

Whatever, he'd deal with it tomorrow, Dutch's bed was a great comfort, it's linen soft and inviting for a good night's sleep.

Bill Williamson, another of Dutch's recruits with an inferiority complex. Soon to be the next demon in line to torment the shit out of him.

Great, just great. Thanks Dutch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for 2020, hope you all enjoy, thank you so much for giving this story a chance!
> 
> Feedback is much appreciated, that includes constructive criticism.
> 
> Wish you all a happy new year, time to leave this crappy one behind us!


End file.
